


The Evolution of Fear

by wouldyouliketoseemymask



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-21 20:37:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 31,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wouldyouliketoseemymask/pseuds/wouldyouliketoseemymask
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Was Dr. Jonathan Crane born a villain? An Nolanverse origins story detailing Crane's life, including his childhood in Georgia, his journey from Gotham University professor to the head of Arkham Asylum, the creation of his fear toxin, and his eventual transformation into the fearsome Scarecrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ichabod, 1990

 " _The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear." –_ H.P. Lovecraft

* * *

 

**Ichabod**

_1990_

* * *

 

 

"Ichabod! Hey, _Ichabod!_ "

Jonathan Crane closed his eyes as the beginnings of dread began to form knots in his stomach. _Please don't be Billy, please don't be Billy._ But there was no mistaking that lazy, venom-laced drawl, and when he opened his eyes he found himself in the looming shadow of Billy Lee Walker, a sneer plastered across his bulky face.

Billy bullied a lot of people—as bullies are wont to do—but he _really_ had it out Crane. Throughout his four years of high school, Crane could not recall a single school-day that he had not been the recipient of Billy's cruelty. Although Billy was a poor student (relying on cheating to ensure that he received a passing grade each semester) he was quite knowledgeable regarding different ways to inflict pain, whether it be through humiliation or his fists. Their first interaction had been during the first day of freshman year, when Crane had made the grave mistake of accidentally bumping into Billy's shoulder while walking to class. This apparent transgression had resulted in a punch that broke Crane's glasses and bloodied his nose—the first of many to come during the following years.

"Whatcha reading, Ichabod?"

Crane loathed his English teacher for assigning _The Legend of Sleepy Hollow_ as class time reading material; as amusing at it was to listen to Billy stammer over words longer than five characters when it was his turn to read aloud, he highly doubted that Billy would know who Ichabod Crane was otherwise. Unfortunately for Crane, Billy paid enough attention in class to realize that he shared similar physical characteristics as well as a surname with the story's protagonist.

"You wouldn't be interested," Crane mumbled quietly, burying his face deeper into his book. He had taken to spending lunch hour sitting underneath a rather large tree, hoping that the shade would shield him from Billy's vision and therefore his wrath. Crane would spend the time immersed in a book, glasses askew as his eyes poured over page after page. No one ever approached him to start a conversation and Crane liked it that way—social interaction with his classmates was not something that he was accustomed to nor was it something that he desired. He had long ago accepted that he did not "fit in" with schoolyard societal norms due to a combination of his unique interests and his grandmother's overbearing rules.

"Those who call themselves friends are nothing but trouble," the old crone had said, placing her gnarled hand on top of the Keeny family Bible. "They want to lead you astray and soil you with their filth and their lies."

And so Crane kept to himself, speaking only when spoken to (which was not often) and doing his best to fade into the background as quietly as possible.

But that didn't matter to Billy. Not one bit.

Billy reached down and unceremoniously plucked the book from between Crane's fingers, exposing his face along with his crooked glasses and neatly-combed hair.

Crane sighed. Perhaps if he appealed to Billy's ego the brute would return the book.

"May I please have that back, Billy?"

Billy ignored him and turned his attention towards the book's hard worn cover. " _Twice Told Tales_ ," he read aloud, and smiled as if proud of himself for this great accomplishment. Crane reached towards the book but Billy quickly pulled away from his grasp, smirking.

Four years worth of anger boiled inside of Crane and he was unable to stop the words from spilling through his lips. "I'm surprised that you were able to read that," he spat out, and instantly he wished that he could take it back.

Billy's grin faded to a dark frown of rage and his eyes narrowed dangerously; Crane instinctively pressed his back against the tree, feeling the bark roughly scrape against his elbows.

"What did you just say, Crane?"

"N-nothing."

But it was too late.

Billy reached down and grabbed Crane by his hair, the smaller boy wincing in pain as he was thrown effortlessly from the false safety of the quiet, secluded spot underneath the tree. Crane inhaled dirt and wheezed as he struggled to gain his footing, but the bully was too fast for him; a swift kick to the ribs took Crane's breath away and he gasped in pain as his body crumpled to the ground.

He felt Billy grip the back of his shirt, and Crane was flipped over onto his back, squinting as the harsh sun shone brightly into his eyes. _Maybe a teacher will see_ , he thought numbly. _Maybe-_

"Stop!" Crane gasped, eyes wide with horror as he watched Billy grab a handful of pages and rip them savagely from the book with gusto.

"Stop, sto-"

Crane did not get a chance to finish his plea before Billy crammed the crushed pages into Crane's mouth. Crane gagged as the paper sliced into his gums and tongue, but Billy kept his hand firmly clamped across Crane's lips, a wide, malicious splayed across his face.

Crane had feared Billy from the moment that he felt his fist connect with his glasses for the first time, but this was the first time that the bully had instilled raw, primitive terror in Crane. Humiliated and terrified, Crane was unable to stop the tears from sliding from his eyes and down his cheeks.

Satisfied, Billy released his hold on Crane. He watched with glee as Crane sat in the dirt and wiped his wet face, slick with sweat, tears, and drool, cheeks burning red. "Enjoy your book, _Ichabod_ ," Billy hissed, and walked away back into the school building, leaving Crane alone with his shame.

He wouldn't return to class. He couldn't. He didn't care what punishment the teacher would administer—likely the usual several swats across his palms with the often-used yardstick—nothing could possibly be worse than the sheer humiliation and torture that Billy had inflicted onto him. His classmates would see his disheveled hair and his dirt-streaked clothes and his red eyes and they would _know_. They would know that he had been the recipient of Billy's violence yet again and they would say nothing, but they would _pity_ him.

If there was one thing that Crane loathed more than Billy Lee Walker, it was pity.

Crane wearily rose from the ground, dusted off his clothes, and began the journey towards his home. If he walked slowly, he would get there in close to an hour—by that time he would have conjured some excuse for his early arrival to present to Granny Keeny. As he walked past endless rows of cornfields he thought of Billy, entertaining fantasies where he was suitably punished for the hell he had put Crane through. He'd punch him in the nose over and over again, relishing the crunch of breaking bone underneath his fist, or perhaps he'd make him eat a whole set of encyclopedias.

Or maybe he'd just kill him.

He noticed a distinct shadow reflected on the path before him, different than the repetitive corn stalks, and he turned his head towards the source. A scarecrow draped in the tattered, patched remains of a jacket stood before him, fastened to its post with worn, faded rope, a crude grin stitched across its burlap face. Crane stood in its shadow for a few moments and stared into the burlap smile, picturing Billy's bruised and battered body tied to the post, his mouth warped into a toothless, twisted grimace.

After a time, Crane smiled back.

 


	2. Affection, 1990

* * *

**Affection**

_1990_

* * *

Jonathan Crane carefully studied his reflection in the small, cracked compact mirror cradled in his hand. Granny Keeny considered vanity to be a sin in addition to a waste of time—"a vain man is a foolish man"—and forbade mirrors in their home; as a result, Crane had to resort to using the broken compact (found on the floor of a classroom one afternoon) when dressing every morning. As he ran thin fingers across his face, he contemplated his features; although he had caught some of his female classmates staring at him on occasion (quickly averting their eyes the second he looked in their direction) he had assumed that their gawking was merely a form of rudeness and thought nothing more of it. He had never considered that attraction was the reason for their glances—after all, he'd never been told that he was good-looking, and he had never been the recipient—nor the bearer—of any sort of romantic inclinations.

Until Louise.

Louise, with her brown hair that hung like silk around her shoulders, dark eyes that sparkled when she laughed, and soft lips that made his heart leap when they smiled. Louise, who read the same books as him and recited Yeats and made him smile for the first time in what felt like an eternity. Louise, the girl whom he loved.

Placing the mirror underneath his mattress, he rose and dusted off his patched jacket; it was the nicest garment he owned, and he had even ironed it earlier in the day while Granny Keeny had been tending to the garden. Tonight was the senior prom, and he wanted to look his best for the occasion. Perhaps his clothing was not as nice nor as expensive as his classmates', but he knew that wouldn't matter to Louise—trivial things like that weren't important to her.

Slowly, gently, Crane opened his window—one small creak and he would be discovered. Despite her age, Granny Keeny had the hearing of a hawk and the thought of her catching him made his blood run cold. After sliding through the window with painstaking caution, he climbed down the mansion's drain pipe with equal precision before lowering himself onto the ground with surprising grace. He paused for a moment with baited breath, waiting for the old woman's angry shrieks to echo throughout the farm, but there was only silence.

Satisfied, Crane began his walk to school, and when he was far enough from the mansion he even began to whistle quietly. It was a strange and exciting feeling to be happy, and Crane found himself wishing that it would never end.

* * *

"Hey, Jonathan!"

Crane flinched involuntarily—usually the sound of his name being called brought him nothing but misery—but when he looked up from his book to see the smiling face of Louise Carter his nervousness quickly changed to confusion.

"Er...hello." Crane wracked his brain for any possible reason that Louise would have for speaking to him, and barring an emergency situation he was unable to find one. Louise didn't appear to be under any distress; in fact, she looked downright pleased to see him.

Louise tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and sat down on the ground beside him. "What are you reading?" she asked with genuine interest, which confused Crane even more.

"Oh." Crane cleared his throat, trying to fight the blush threatening to bloom on his cheeks. He had never had a conversation with a girl before (besides Granny Keeny, and Granny was _hardly_ a girl) and the sudden realization that the fairer sex intimidated him was both an embarrassment and a shock.

Louise gave him a small, understanding smile and leaned forward to look at the book's cover; Crane caught a whiff of her perfume and felt his face grow hot—he imagined that his face was likely beet-red at this point.

"I like Poe too," Louise revealed, making a point to look Crane in the eye and not at his reddening cheeks. " _The Cask of Amontillado_ is my favorite story, but really there's so many great works to choose from that it's almost impossible to narrow it down to one."

Despite his embarrassment, Crane could feel the corners of his mouth turn upwards into a small smile of his own. "I like that one too," he murmured quietly, beginning to relax.

Louise grinned and before Crane knew it he found himself having a thoughtful, lengthy conversation with her over literature. When the bell rang to signal that lunch hour was over Crane felt a twinge of disappointment that quickly vanished when Louise turned to him and asked if she'd see him after class. He had nodded, his heart pounding with excitement, and kept his word, walking with her along the cornfields as they discussed poetry and classic novels.

They'd continued the conversation the next day. And then the day after that. And then the day after _that_ day.

And before long, Crane was falling head over heels in love with Louise.

* * *

When Crane saw Louise standing in front of the school his heart lept and he quickened his pace. In his hand he held a small bouquet of wild flowers that he'd plucked from a field, taking great care not to crush them against his chest as he walked. Even from a distance, he could tell that Louise looked stunning—but then again, Crane always found her breath-taking.

But as he approached her, he noticed that her eyes were wet with tears and he felt a rush of panic.

"Are you alright?" he asked quickly, voice heavy with concern, and she nodded as a tear slid down her cheek.

"I'm fine," Louise replied softly, yet offered no explanation for her tears.

After a quiet moment Crane awkwardly tried to hand her the flowers. "Here," he said. "Maybe these will make you feel better."

Unfortunately, the action had the exact opposite effect as Louise began to cry again, her shoulders heaving up and down with sobs. Unsure of what to do, Crane reached forward to embrace her, but Louise stepped back and away from his grasp.

"I'm so sorry, Jonathan," she moaned, "I'm so, _so_ incredibly sorry."

"What—why? I don't understand."

She shook her head. "It wasn't supposed to go this far."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Crane felt sick—surely she didn't mean-

"It was just supposed to be a harmless prank, nothing more—please believe me, I never wanted you to get hurt—"

Crane's vision swam— _this couldn't be happening, it couldn't be—_

"I wanted to stop, but Billy said he'd beat you up if I didn't go along with it...Jonathan, look at me!" Louise pleaded. She reached for him but this time it was Crane who took a step back, his face a mask of pain and disgust.

"Y-you lied to me," Crane stammered, "You lied to me!"

"No, Jonathan, I really do like you! It's just—"

"It's just that it's much more fun to make fun of me than to be my friend, is that it?" Crane spat the words out angrily, rage now overcoming the sadness and hurt.

"No! That's not it at all!"

"Oh, but it is! That's _exactly_ what it is!" Crane's voice was now a high shriek, and for the first time Louise began to look frightened.

"Jonathan, please, calm down—"

"I can't believe that I thought you were different, that I was so _stupid_. You're just like them, only _worse_." Overwhelmed, Crane threw the bouquet on the ground; the flowers crumpled into a scattered, ruined mess of petals and stems. Narrowing his eyes, he cast Louise with a final look of hatred. "Have fun tonight," he said bitterly, then turned on his heel and ran, ignoring Louise's crying pleas.

He ran until his heart pounded in his chest and his breath became ragged gulps; his shaking legs buckled out from beneath him and he fell to the ground, unable to stop the sobs from ripping through his lips. He cried harder than he ever had in his entire life, even harder than the first time that Granny Keeny had locked him inside the atrium and the crows began their descent. After a time he began to sob quietly, his body wreaked with silent tremors of emotion.

Crane had never felt love before—not for Granny Keeny, or the unnamed parents that he never knew—and now it had been ripped from him and exposed as a perverse lie, a charade for a bully's twisted personal gain. As he lay among the cornstalks, he decided that he would never allow himself to be vulnerable again, never seek out affection or friendship lest he be hurt and mocked. What would be the point—in a world full of people like Louise and Billy and Granny Keeny, why should he ever desire human contact? Solitude would be preferable to that particular torture.

Crane felt something inside of him harden and change, and when he rose from the dirt he was a new man.


	3. Pride, 1991

* * *

**Pride**

_1991_

* * *

Jonathan Crane sat in front of his desk inside of his Gotham University dorm, brow furrowed in concentration as his eyes traveled hungrily across the pages of a psychology text book. He paused abruptly, tapping his finger against a page with triumphant gusto and quickly grabbing a pencil to scribble down a stream of notes.

The muffled sounds of laughter and blaring music interrupted his thoughts for what felt like the hundredth time that night and he let out a low sigh of annoyance before slamming his book shut with frustration. Although he had been fortunate enough to receive a single dorm room in addition to his scholarship—without which he'd still be tilling the fields at Keeny Mansion—there was nothing he could do about the intrusive noise that flooded the dormitory halls every Friday and Saturday night. This predicament made studying difficult at best, and he often retreated to the library when his neighbors' boorish behavior became too much to ignore. He could tell that tonight was going to be one of _those_ nights, and so with great irritation he gathered his notes and books into a canvas shoulder bag, grabbed his coat, and stepped into the hallway.

The booming of music overcame him as soon as he had swung open his door and he winced, hoping that he would not be gifted with a piercing headache in the morning. He pushed past the seemingly-endless swarm of students flowing through the hallways; a grinning boy with spiked hair and finely-groomed facial hair tried to push a bottle of beer into Crane's hands and he scowled, unamused with the boy's suggestion and unwanted generosity. When he finally walked out of the dormitory's front doors and into the cool night air he breathed a sigh of relief, grateful to be temporarily free from the suffocating environment indoors.

Although he intended to never return to the Hell that was his former life, there was _one_ thing he missed about Georgia: the quiet. In the countryside there was no constant blaring of car horns or loud music, no overwhelming stench of cigarette smoke and stale coffee; just the sounds of corn stalks rustling as they gently swayed in the breeze and the occasional _caw_ of a crow circling the fields. But the stillness of rural life did not hold enough charm to entice him to stay, and the instant his tuition check arrived in the mail he had packed his few belongings into a beaten suitcase and boarded the first bus into the city.

He had spared the time, however, to ensure that Granny Keeny would no longer inflict her cruelty on him—or anyone else—ever again.

There were few people in the library (as per usual on a late Friday night) and Crane was able to secure his favorite table in a somewhat-secluded corner. Thankful to finally be surrounded by tranquil silence, he retrieved his books from his bag and resumed reading with fresh intensity.

Moments later he felt a hand on his shoulder and he flinched, both taken aback and disgusted by the sudden physical contact. "Yes?" Crane snapped, unable to hide his annoyance.

"Mr. Crane?" a deep voice replied, and Crane turned around in his seat to face Professor Pigeon, his psychology professor and the head of Gotham University's psych department.

"Oh." A red flush of embarrassment crept across Crane's cheeks. "I'm sorry, Professor," he murmured, casting his eyes to the floor with shame.

"That's quite alright, Mr. Crane," Pigeon said kindly. "I shouldn't have startled you like that." He nodded his head towards the chair across the table from Crane. "May I?"

Crane cleared his throat nervously. "Yes, of course."

"Thank you." Pigeon lowered himself into the chair and fixed Crane with a small smile. "I wanted to talk to you about your paper, Mr. Crane."

"...oh?"

"I wanted to let you know that I am very impressed with your work. _Very_ impressed."

" _Oh_." Crane squirmed in his chair, unsure of what to say; he was not accustomed to receiving praise, much less being told that he was _impressive_. Granny Keeny had ingrained into him from a young age that only arrogant fools partook in narcissism and never offered him the slightest bit of encouragement, lest he join their ranks. "Thank you," he mumbled finally, feeling the beginnings of another blush threaten to bloom.

"I can see that I've made you uncomfortable," Pigeon observed quietly.

"No, it's just..." Crane paused. "I'm just not used to receiving compliments."

Pigeon nodded knowingly and to Crane's relief he did not press the issue. "Just between you and I, Mr. Crane, I haven't seen such a well-researched and thorough paper in years." He chuckled. "To tell you the truth, I was beginning to wonder if my students were even paying attention."

Crane nodded with non-commitment. "I have enjoyed your lectures on the subject."

"Your paper conveyed as much." Pigeon smiled. "Tell me, Mr. Crane—what is it about fear that you find so intriguing?"

Crane swallows and for a moment he could clearly hear the sound of crows' wings flapping as they begin their descent towards the small, terrified boy huddled in the corner of Keeny Atrium, feel the impact of Billy Lee Walker's fist as it slammed into his nose, taste the wet salt of fresh tears—

"Mr. Crane?"

Crane forced a small, empty smile. "I suppose I don't rightly know, Professor Pigeon," he answered, and shrugged his shoulders.

Pigeon raised his eyebrows but seemed to accept the answer. He rose from his chair and extended a hand forward; Crane discreetly wiped his sweat palm on his pants before extending his own and shaking the professor's hand.

"If you're ever interested in further discussing the subject, Mr. Crane, please remember that my office door is always open to students."

Crane nodded and twisted his lips into another false grin. "Thank you, Professor."

The man gave a nod of his own before leaving Crane to his research. Crane watched as the professor walked through the library doors and into the night, overcome with a mixture of confusion and another emotion he could not quite place. Satisfaction? Pride? _Joy_?

It was true, he _had_ poured a lot of effort into his latest paper—even more so than usual. He had found himself immersed in Pigeon's lectures on fear, from the chemical reaction it created to nightmares to the different ways that creatures reacted when confronted with horror, and after class he had spent the rest of the day and the entire night reading through his textbook, absorbing word after word. When he was finished he had continued his research in the library, devouring book after book in an effort to discover what the psychiatric greats thought of the subject.

Still, despite his endeavors he had not expected his professor's praise, much less an invitation to discuss the subject further as if he was an... _equal_. It was a strange feeling to be both complimented and held in high regard, and Crane _liked_ it.

He briefly wondered what Granny Keeny would have thought of their conversation; he imagined that she would have disapproved, of course, and assured him that the professor was only filling his head with nonsense in order to lead him astray to a life of sin and an eternity of hellfire.

Yes, that certainly sounded like something that Granny Keeny would say.

With a slightly-bemused expression he gathered his things and returned to his dorm, no longer phased by the bad-mannered antics of his fellow students. He fell asleep with the remnants of a smirk on his lips, and that night he did not dream.


	4. Dirt, 2001

* * *

**Dirt**

_2001_

* * *

"Dr. Crane? Do you have a moment?"

Dr. Jonathan Crane lifted his eyes from the stack of heavily-marked papers on his desk to the young man standing in his office doorway, a manilla folder clenched tightly in her hands. He repressed an irritated sigh, knowing what he likely wanted to discuss—he'd already seen five other students that day for the exact same reason. But this _was_ his designated office hours, and the university expected that all professors make themselves available to their students.

"Yes, of course," he replied flatly with a weary, resigned nod. He could already feel the beginnings of a fresh migraine threatening to pound his temples, the result of reading a seemingly-endless amount of mindless, generic essays before being forced to listen to frantic students defending their mediocre work. When he had taken the position of Professor of Psychology, he had understood that he would be dealing with a certain amount of headache and annoyance—his own classmates throughout his many years of college were enough to compose a prediction of the stupidity he had to look forward to—but nothing could prepare him for the mind-numbing drivel that his students dared to call _work_. It was almost offensive that he be forced to read their garbage when his time could be better spent on his own research; but bills must be paid and studies must be funded, and so he continued his daily task of sludge and boredom.

The boy sat in the chair in front of his desk, crossing leather-clad arms across his broad chest. "I wanted to talk to you about what I could do to possibly raise my grade," he said apprehensively, bracing his back against the chair as if preparing himself for an argument. He spoke as if he already knew the answer—Crane was aware that the student body's consensus of him was that he was as difficult as his curriculum, unmoved by pleas or excuses.

"Do you have your paper, Mister..."

"Stuart. Thomas Stuart. And yes, I do." He handed Crane the manilla folder; upon opening the file, Crane was unsurprised to be greeted with a red-inked _D-_ scrawled in his own handwriting. Swallowing yet another exasperated sigh, Crane placed the folder on his desk and pushed it across to Stuart.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stuart, but I believe that I was clear at the beginning of the semester: I do not offer extra credit," Crane stated curtly. "If you want to raise your grade, then I suggest studying."

Stuart's jaw set with indignation, his eyes slightly narrowed; Crane could tell that he was not used to being told _no_. "Come on, Dr. Crane," he murmured with thinly-veiled displeasure, "you sure you can't make an exception just this once?"

Although this was his first time speaking with Stuart—Crane could not recall him ever participating in lectures, or even attending many classes—he knew his type well; arrogant, insistent, and spoiled.

"That would be highly unfair to your classmates, Mr. Stuart," Crane replied evenly. "The answer is no."

Stuart scoffed. "Come now, Dr. Crane," he said, his light tone barely concealing the temper threatening to explode, "let's be reasonable." He reached into his pocket and retrieved his wallet before opening the folds and selecting a few crisp bills. "I'm sure that you can be persuaded to change your mind," he finished before leaning forward and sliding the bills into Crane's front coat pocket, patting his fingers airily against the fabric in a gesture of reassurance and condescension.

Crane clenched his fist in anger, nails digging into his palms. How dare this pathetic waste of flesh and bone, this _cretin_ —how dare he think that he could buy _him_ , as if he were an object to be plucked off a shelf and purchased on a whim. How _dare_ he think that he hold any sort of power over Crane simply because he was lucky enough to be birthed into Gotham wealth instead of a barren Georgian farm. Crane's past life was one of poverty and dirt, and somehow this brat _knew_ —it was apparent from the foul, smug grin plastered across his pock-marked face. Was it his suit? True, it _was_ slightly too big and had been purchased off a rack, but he meticulously pressed it each morning and tended to it with delicate care so that it looked as new as it had the day he bought it. His glasses? Acquired from a pharmacy display for around ten dollars—but they didn't _look_ cheap, did they?

He wasn't sure who he was more angry with—the boy or himself. Shame burned through him and it took all of his self-control to not flush an all-to-familiar shade of embarrassed scarlet; he would die before allowing this peon the privilege of humiliating him.

The fury he felt boiling inside of him rivaled any he had endured in years—not since he had last felt the stinging slap of Granny Keeny's palm across his cheek or Billy Lee Walker's fist as it connected with the bridge of his nose had he experienced such pure rage. He had only just met this boy and yet he _hated_ him. He hated him for his arrogance, his spoiled nature, and his shameless flaunting of money, but above all because he had made Crane second-guess himself.

He had created a spark of self-doubt and it was for that reason that Crane wanted to see him suffer.

Crane cleared his throat before removing the cash from his pocket and tossing it onto the desk. "I do not want your money, Mr. Stuart," he said calmly, "but if you are serious about wishing to raise your grade, I believe that I can help you."

Stuart cocked his head to the side. "How's that?"

"There is extra credit available for a select few students."

"You just said—"

"That was before I realized how dedicated you are to improving, Mr. Stuart," Crane interrupted smoothly. "However, if you are not interested..."

"No, no, I am!" Stuart's previous bravado was now replaced with evident relief. "What's the extra credit?"

"Mostly assistance work, nothing overtly complicated. I trust you are up to the task?"

Stuart nodded fervently. "Yeah, no problem." He rose from his seat, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and fixing Crane with a pleased grin. "Hey, I really appreciate this, Dr. Crane. Sorry if I, ya know, offended you earlier."

"Think nothing of it. One more thing, Mr. Stuart."

"Yes, sir?"

"Don't mention this to anyone. If I advertise that I offer extra credit—"

"Then everyone would want it," Stuart finished. "You got it, Dr. Crane." The boy's boisterous grin widened. "You know, I don't get why everyone says you're such a scary guy. You seem pretty alright to me," he said cheerfully, ignorant to rudeness of his statement.

Now it was Crane's turn to smile. "Oh, do they really think that I'm scary?" he asked casually.

Stuart chuckled. "Yeah, a lot of them say you're sorta weird. I dunno, I guess it's 'cause you're so quiet." He shrugged. "But what do they know, huh?"

Crane thought of the humiliation and pain he'd endured during his school years, of the lonely tears shed in Keeny Mansion; he thought of the arrogance of the boy before him, and how for a brief moment he had made him feel like that small, weak boy again. He thought of the thick file stowed away in the locked drawer of his desk, and how long he had been aching to put its contents to the test.

What was that phrase that Granny Keeny was so fond of? _All good things to those who wait?_ He supposed the old bat had finally been right about something after all.

Crane smirked. "What do they know, indeed."


	5. Thirst, 2001

* * *

**Thirst**

_2001_

* * *

The knock on his office door at half past eleven the following night brought a smirk to Crane's lips; the young man was twenty-one minutes late, but Crane had expected nothing less from him. "Come in," he called out in a deceitfully light tone that bordered on kindness, and the door opened to reveal Stuart, wearing the same leather jacket and unabashedly arrogant grin as yesterday.

"Hey, Dr. Crane," Stuart said, closing the door behind him. "Burning the midnight oil, yeah?"

Crane gave his best impression of a good-natured smile; his lips felt funny and almost contorted by the gesture. "I do apologize for the lateness of the hour, Mr. Stuart," Crane replied, "but as I told you earlier this evening, my last class ends at nine o'clock and afterwards I'm occupied with other duties. This was the only free time that I could afford."

Stuart shrugged. "No big deal. I'm just grateful for the opportunity."

Were Crane a laughing man, he would have fought the urge to suppress a chuckle. Instead, he asked "you didn't tell anyone else about our agreement, correct?"

Stuart nodded fervently. "No, sir. I remember what you said about not wanting others to start clamoring for extra credit—"

"Excellent. May I offer you a drink, Mr. Stuart?"

"Uh, sure. Whadda you have?"

Crane reached into his desk drawer and retrieved a small bottle of whiskey, followed by two shot glasses. "Make yourself comfortable," he said amicably, unscrewing the bottle's cap and pouring the amber-colored liquid into their glasses. "You may be here for a while."

"Oh, is this gonna take a long—"

"That depends entirely on you, Mr. Stuart."

"What do you—"

"This is a twenty-year old whiskey," Crane interrupted, handing Stuart a glass. "Admittedly, I don't partake in drinking very often, but even I can appreciate the taste."

Stuart apparently had no such reservations about alcohol and downed his glass with the ease of one accustomed to indulging often. He let out a quiet "ah" before smacking his lips, evidently pleased. "That was pretty good!" he exclaimed with enthusiasm, as if he were gifting Crane with high praise.

"Thank you." He paused for a moment before adding, "it was quite expensive." It was true; the alcohol had cost him his grocery budget for the month, and had been purchased solely for the night's occasion. If all went well, it would be worth every penny.

"Would you like another glass?" Crane asked politely. Stuart eagerly nodded and Crane refilled his glass, which Stuart quickly downed without a moment's hesitation. _Even a country farm boy like me knows that you're supposed to_ savor _the drin_ k, Crane thought bitterly, but said nothing. Instead he refilled Stuart's glass yet again, and the younger man poured the whiskey down his throat.

"I only bring up the otherwise crass subject of price, Mr. Stuart, because of your actions during our initial meeting."

"Wh-what?" Stuart blinked repeatedly, clearly beginning to feel the effects of his drinks.

"Do you not recall? Allow me to refresh your memory, then." Crane rose from his chair and leaned forward, palms pressed against the smooth varnish of his desk. "When I informed you that I would not cater to your demands, you attempted to _buy_ me. You placed money—money that your parents no doubt gave you—into my pocket and assumed that you could _buy_ me. And that was terribly rude of you, Mr. Stuart. Terribly rude and a _mistake_."

"Everyone's right," Stuart slurred. "You _are_ weird." He attempted to rise from his chair, but his legs buckled from underneath him and he collapsed back into his seat.

"Oh dear, did you have a bit too much to drink?" Crane asked, his tone sharp and mocking. "I confess, I _may_ have added a little something special to the whiskey—nothing extravagant, of course, just a simple paralyzing agent. Oh, don't worry—" Crane laughed as Stuart's eyes widened in confusion and horror. "—you won't feel any permanent effects or suffer any long-lasting damage. I assure you, I have no desire to cause you irreversible harm." He smiled. "Physically, anyway."

Stuart slumped in his chair as a low, quiet moan of despair escaped from his parted lips. Crane was sure that the young man desired nothing more than to let out a piercing cry for help, but unfortunately for Stuart the chemical Crane had added was designed to paralyze vocal chords in addition to the body.

Suddenly, Crane clapped his hands together, eyebrows raised in feigned admonishment. "I'm enjoying this conversation just as much as you are, Mr. Stuart, but I'm afraid that we must move on to business—after all, there is still the matter of your extra credit, and it would be most unfair if I were to go back on my word just because of a few...er, we'll call them _unforeseen_ developments."

Stuart was able only to wrinkle his eyes in a helpless, pleading gesture that Crane found both pathetic and humorous. Choosing to interpret Stuart's silence as an affirmative reply to continue, Crane reached underneath his desk and slowly lifted up a small woven basket before gently placing it before him.

"Are you familiar with rat torture, Mr. Stuart?"

Of course Stuart was unable to respond, but Crane suspected that the young man's knowledge of medieval history was minimum at best—although no doubt the word "torture" must have made him uneasy.

"It's a rather gruesome process, I assure you. The Dutch and Chinese were fond of employing it." Crane lifted the basket's lid and carefully stuck his hand inside; Stuart's eyes widened with horror when Crane's hand reappeared, his fingers clasped around the thick, worm-like tail of a rat. It emitted a high-pitched squeal, writhing its fat, bulbous body about in the air and gnashing teeth yellow with decay. The rat's fur shone glossy black in the light of the office, and its eyes sparkled madly with hateful anger and confusion with its current environment.

"First, a hapless soul was restrained to a table," Crane began, taking a step towards a clearly terrified Stuart. "Much like you are now in your seat, Mr. Stuart, more or less. Then, a rat was placed onto the victim's stomach and trapped inside of bucket, like so—"

Crane threw the rat onto Stuart's lap, and with speed that surprised even himself he brought the basket down on top of it, scooping it up and against Stuart's abdomen.

"A flame was applied on the other side of the bucket, heating up the inside and causing a great deal of distress to the unfortunate vermin. Desperate to escape, the creature would rush towards the victim's stomach and...well, it's quite grisly, Mr. Stuart, and I'm sure you can fill in the blanks."

Crane attempted a smirk, but his heart was racing, pounding so loudly in his chest that he was sure that Stuart could hear it—maybe the young man was _laughing_ at him inwardly, at how _nervous_ he must look, how _scared_ he was that something in his plan would go wrong.

"As I don't have a fire, we'll have to try something different, Mr. Stuart," Crane whispered, and began to violently shake the basket, tossing about the hapless and by now very agitated and frightened rat inside. Stuart's eyes darted back and forth frantically, wide and mad with horror. Tears slid down his cheeks as dry, guttural noises seeped through his lips; even without the ability to move or scream, his fear was palatable.

Crane suddenly thought of Billy Lee Walker, of his biting tongue and cruel fists. _Couldn't even face me like a man, could ya, Crane? You wouldn't dare use your fists, would ya, Ichabod? Coward!_

Crane swallowed, droplets of sweat pouring down his forehead. He wasn't a coward, _he wasn't_ —so what if he had incapacitated Stuart first, so what—that was called having the upper hand, not cowardice. Cowards were weak and Crane was _not_ weak. Not back then, not now, not _ever_.

Crane's grip on the basket remained steadfast as he studied Stuart's face, watched as the emotion in his eyes changed from unimaginable terror to raw pain to tired resignation. He had been truthful when he told Stuart that he would be assisting him—for quite some time, Crane had yearned for an opportunity to study the effects of fear without a release. To endure fear without being able to scream, cry or even move a muscle was a rare predicament and a special kind of Hell, fitting for one so arrogant and uncouth as young Mr. Stuart.

And now that he had been gifted with this glorious chance at an experiment, he could move forward with his research.

Exhausted, Crane removed the basket from Stuart's scratched, bloodied stomach and knocked the rat onto the floor; it scurried into a corner, likely grateful to be free from its confines. Crane could relate to the feeling.

Crane was not sure what would happen next. He knew that the moment Stuart regained his voice and the use of his legs that he would run screaming from the office, and Crane knew that boy and his parents would not rest until Crane was punished for his actions. And he knew that his employment at Gotham University was likely to end in the very near future.

But none of that mattered.

He'd had his first taste of real, primal fear, and it had only served to make him thirsty for more. Although he had often been on the receiving end of terror, this was the first time he had been able to evoke the emotion in others—and he liked it. He _loved_ it.

And from that moment on, he wanted nothing more than to do it again.


	6. Welcome, 2002

* * *

**Welcome**

_2002_

* * *

"Dr. Jonathan Crane, I presume?" Warden Quincy Sharp extended a pale hand towards Crane, an expression of grave seriousness and pomposity etched onto his paunchy face. "I've heard great things about you, young man."

Crane shook the warden's hand—he'd always loathed that particular formality—before quickly returning his own to his coat pocket. "I'm very pleased to hear that, sir," Crane replied. "Thank you for your time today, I realize that you are an extremely busy man—"

Sharp waved his hand dismissively. "Nonsense; I'm never too busy when it comes to matters involving prospective employees of Arkham Asylum—particularly those with as much potential as yourself." He gestured towards a rather plush black leather chair across from his desk. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

"Thank you." Crane lowered himself into the chair and placed his hands in his lap, fingers interlaced atop his attache briefcase. He surveyed the warden's office with appraising eyes; Crane was of the opinion that the state of a man's abode was a reflection of his character, and Sharp's office was no exception. Sharp had spared no expense in ensuring that his office was both well-decorated with expensive furniture and heavily-adorned with his visage—two life-size bronze statues of the warden framed the doorway, their stands embellished with the words _sanity fighting the madness_ , and an oil portrait hung behind his desk. The amount of time that Crane had spoken to the warden could be measured in moments, but already he knew his type well; insecure, vain, eager to impress.

And above all, easily manipulated.

Sharp smirked with satisfaction, mistaking Crane's repulsed fascination for admiration. "Are you an appreciator of art, Dr. Crane?" Sharp asked, his tone ripe with snobbery.

"Oh, of sorts, I suppose."

The warden smiled. "From what I hear, you are a man with a great deal of interests."

Crane cleared his throat anxiously. "Oh, well, I suppose so, sir." _Dammit_. He'd tried so hard to keep his cool and maintain a composed exterior, and now here he was sputtering like a fool. _Dammit, dammit, dammit_. Of _course_ Sharp knew about his history at Gotham University—true, the university had gone through painstaking lengths to ensure that the whole affair remained under-wraps, including a generous financial settlement for Stuart and his parents, but it had cost him his job and a good many prospective teaching positions. Although he was well-qualified—remarkably so—other universities were reluctant to hire on a professor who experimented on his students, no matter how deeply unpleasant the test subject may have been. Crane had spent the last few months living off his nearly-depleted savings account and dealing with rejection after rejection after rejection, and he could not deny that both circumstances were tiresome and highly discouraging.

Still, he did not regret his actions. In fact, despite his subsequent tribulations he had never felt more alive or content. He spent hours upon hours rehashing the experiment, filling notebook after notebook with new-found observations, thoughts, and ideas for future experiments—and there _would_ be more. It was only a matter of time and opportunity.

But one cannot pay the bills with aspirations, and so Crane had sought employment outside of teaching. When he learned that Arkham Asylum was looking to hire a new psychiatrist after an unfortunate therapy session with the Joker, he applied for the job. He hadn't really expected anything to hear back from the asylum, and had been surprised when he received a phone call two days later from Sharp himself, asking him if he would be able to come in for an interview the next day.

And now here he sat in the warden's office, wearing his best suit and a faint, flustered blush, watching what remained of his job prospects and dignity begin to circle the drain.

The warden smiled a knowing smile and patted Crane reassuringly on the hand; it took all of his self-control not to flinch from the man's clammy touch. "There is no need to be nervous, Dr. Crane. An innovative man such as yourself is _exactly_ what this asylum needs."

Oh.

He certainly hadn't expected _that_.

"Allow me to explain." Warden Sharp rose from his chair and crossed the room to stand in front of the fireplace, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. He paused, and Crane noticed a dark, contemplative look cross the man's face as he gazed into the flames. He wondered if perhaps he had been a bit too quick to judge the warden, and the thought made him slightly uncomfortable.

After a moment Sharp turned to Crane, and the grim expression had been replaced with the man's usual pompous demeanor. "You see, Dr. Crane, the inmates of this asylum are infected."

"Infected?"

Sharp nodded. "And the only way to cure an infection is to cleanse it."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Oh, but I believe you do, Dr. Crane. I know about your... _incident_ at Gotham University, to which I say—job well done!" The warden's eyes sparkled as he paced the room, no longer looking at Crane, as if seemingly entranced with his own thoughts. "I have many _highly-qualified_ —" Sharp spat the word out, as if disgusted, "psychiatrists employed here, but what good has it done? What use is school and training and degrees if this—" Sharp spread open his arms and gestured wildly about the room—"is the result?"

Sharp walked forward and pressed his hands onto his desk, leaning towards Crane. "But _you_ , Dr. Crane, _you_ have what it takes to make changes." He leaned closer. "I can provide you with all the tools you need for your research, anything at all—so long as you share all of it with me. I have ambitions outside of this asylum, and a progressive development is exactly what I need to serve as a stepping stone towards my new goal. And I'm willing to do _whatever_ it takes to reach that goal."

While his own reasons for entering the psychiatric field were less than noble, Crane still found Sharp's enthusiasm repulsive, and the man himself a fool—albeit a power-hungry one, and power-hungry men were often dangerous. He certainly had no intention to share his work with anyone, least of all an egotistical oaf like Sharp.

Still, this could work in his favor.

He'd play along, for now. He was getting quite good at that.

Crane forced himself to smile. "I'd be more than pleased with that arrangement, Warden," he lied. "I believe that we can be of much help for one another."

"Excellent, excellent!" Sharp replied with delight. "You've made a wise decision, young man. I _knew_ you had potential."

He reached forward and shook Crane's hand enthusiastically, his beady eyes sparkling behind his glasses.

"Welcome to Arkham Asylum, Dr. Crane."


	7. Revulsion, 2002

* * *

**Revulsion**

_2002_

* * *

Crane stood in Arkham Asylum's staff restroom, sweaty hands tightly gripping the white ceramic sink before him as if it were a life preserver and the slightest loosening of his clutch would send him plunging through the floor, swallowed by tile and concrete and dirt. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead before sliding down his face and leaving the salty taste of fear on his lips; it was a taste that he had become well-acquainted with throughout his life, an old friend that visited often and brought him both misery and pleasure. His glasses sat on the edge of the sink, the lenses coated with a fine spray of water from when he'd splashed his face in an effort to calm his nerves.

It hadn't worked.

He had expected that he would be nervous, but nothing could have prepared him for the crescendo of anxiety that grew with every heartbeat, gnawing at his insides and twisting his stomach into knots of pain and nausea. He felt sick with anticipation, and yet he also felt strangely excited; this would be a new experience for him, a new step in his path towards his ultimate goal, and only by completing this task could he advance.

He could not delay the inevitable, but he could welcome it.

And he would.

He glanced at his reflection and did not like what he saw; a pale, timid, frightened man with a wet face and disheveled hair, blue eyes wide as if caught in headlights.

He hated that man and wanted him dead.

With meticulous fingers he smoothed his hair and straightened his tie before wiping his face and glasses with a rather abrasive paper towel. After placing his glasses onto his face, he studied his reflection; when well put-together, he could almost pass for confident. It would do, for now.

He picked up his suitcase, gave the man in the mirror a final goodbye-glance, and began his journey to the interview room.

* * *

"Ah, _fresh meat_."

Waylon Jones, better known by his alias "Killer Croc", licked his decaying, sharpened teeth obscenely before inhaling a deep, exaggerated whiff of air. He exhaled loudly in satisfaction, and when he grinned Crane felt a chill run down his spine. "Delicious," he hissed, and Crane stifled the urge to vomit.

"That's enough, Croc!" Security guard Aaron Cash waved an electric baton at Croc with threatening authority, flanked by two other security guards (one equipped with a rifle that Crane presumed was loaded with tranquilizers), and his efforts were rewarded with a glaring look of hatred before Croc turned back and fixed Crane with yellowing eyes.

Croc was an impressive sight to behold, and in spite of his professional resolve Crane could not help but be fascinated and sickened at the man that sat before him. A thick, scale-like coating covered what Crane assumed was once smooth skin, shining underneath the fluorescent light bulbs. His nose was small and flat, his nostrils set in a wide flare as if he were constantly inhaling the scent of those around him, tasting their flesh on his long, red tongue. He was tall and bulking, muscular and intimidating, and Crane suspected that despite their weapons and the shock collar that adorned Croc's neck that if he decided to attack there would be little the guards could do about it.

Waylon Jones had likely died a long time ago during his agonizing—both mentally and physically—transformation into Killer Croc, and for a fleeting moment Crane wondered if this should sadden him. But that was dangerously close to pity, and the one thing that Crane loathed above all else was pity. Ultimately he decided that a man who cannibalized others alive was worthy of little sympathy, and so he pressed forward.

"Mr. Jones, my name is Dr. Crane. How are you this morning?"

"The name is Killer Croc," Croc sneered. "Don't you read the papers, pretty boy?"

"I apologize, Kil—Mr. Croc." Crane stumbled over his words and Croc's sneer widened.

"No need to be nervous, Doc. I think I like you."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. You look like a stick. I think your bones would snap _real nice_." Croc laughed a raspy, booming laugh that chilled Crane's blood and sent Cash into a rage.

"Shut the hell up!" Cash yelled, jamming the electrical baton into Croc's skin. Croc howled, either in amusement or pain—perhaps both—and balled his claw-like hands into fists inside his cuffs.

"Is that really necessary, Mr. Cash?" Crane asked, secretly grateful that the guard had silenced Croc.

"He knows he's not supposed to talk like that, Dr. Crane," Cash replied. "He knows what happens when he's not _respectful_."

"Keep talking, Cash," Croc leered. "Tick tock, tick tock."

"Mr. Croc, I'm to help you," Crane said cautiously, "but I can't unless you allow me to."

"Who says I want your help?"

"We can provide you with mental health services, medication, possibly even treatment for..."

Crane's voice trailed off and Croc let out an angry hiss of disdain.

"For what, Doc? For my _condition_?" Croc spat the final word out in disgust, and Crane knew that he had made a dangerous error.

"If I've offended you, I deeply apologize-"

"I don't need an apology, Doc. Your blood will do nicely instead. Your blood and your bones and your weak flesh—"

This time Croc was prepared for Cash's strike, and knocked the baton out of the guard's hand with enough force to send him flying into the wall. Instantly the other two guards converged upon Croc; the one with the rifle took aim and fired, sending a dart (Crane realized numbly that his suspicions had been correct) into Croc's scaly neck. Croc let out an angry yell as he slid from his chair and onto the ground with a loud _thud_.

"Code Red, Code Red!" Cash screamed into his hand-held radio transceiver. "Croc is down, I repeat, Croc is down!" He turned his attention to Crane. "Dr. Crane, get out of here, now!"

Crane did not need to be told twice. Within a matter of seconds he had grabbed his suitcase and ran out the door, his heart beating so frantically that he felt as if it may burst through his chest. When he reached his office he closed the door behind him and locked it before falling to the floor and vomiting into his wastebasket.

When the nausea had subsided he raised his shaking body into his chair, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. Not since Granny Keeny had he felt such poignant and ripe fear, and the realization filled him with rage—both at Croc and at himself. He'd allowed some beast to frighten him, to have the upper hand, and the creature had drunk in his horror, knowing it had won as it bathed in his terror.

Yes, Killer Croc had won, but in doing so he had damned himself. In Arkham Asylum, Crane had power, and if it was the last thing he ever did he would make Croc pay.

After all, even a beast can feel fear.


	8. Red, 2003

* * *

**Red**

_2003_

* * *

"Dr. Crane! Dr. Crane!"

Crane halted in his tracks, gritting his teeth as the familiar high-pitched voice he often tried so hard to evade floated down the hallway, filling his ears and drilling into his brain. Swallowing his displeasure, he turned around to see a short, petite blonde walking towards him, her thick-rimmed glasses askew and her hair piled into two messy, lop-sided buns.

"Dr. Quinzel," he greeted with strained politeness. In truth, he didn't outright _dislike_ the new psychiatrist—she was pleasant enough, and regularly took it upon herself to refill the coffee pot in the staff lounge—but she had the unfortunate habit of being rather chatty, a quality Crane found both deplorable and grating.

And at the moment, he also found it _highly_ inconvenient.

Quinzel beamed—Crane could tell that she was enjoying her recently-bestowed title of "doctor"—and the corners of her cherry red lips turned upwards into a shy smile. "I'm sorry, am I holding you up?"

"Oh." Answering truthfully would bring upon a new set of questions—best to lie. "I can spare a moment."

"Great!" She grinned widely, displaying white teeth. "I was actually wondering if I could ask you a favor."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, well, see, I got my first _real big_ patient, and our first interview is this afternoon, and I was just wondering..."

"...if I would look over your interview questions." Crane finished.

She nodded, batting lashes coated with black mascara. Crane had noticed on previous occasions that whenever faced with any sort of challenge or apprehension, Quinzel tended to become somewhat coy, as if her charm were a deflective armor. Crane suspected that this worked in her favor often, and he could hardly blame her for employing an affective and likely comforting tactic. After all, he was hardly in a position to judge—flirtation was a harmless quirked when compared to his own methods of advancement.

"I'm afraid that my schedule is quite full, Dr. Quinzel," he began, and she looked crestfallen. "But I assure you, there is no need for me to review your work. I have the utmost faith in your abilities."

That was another lie—he had no idea as to Quinzel's qualifications or talents, and frankly he did not care—but he was willing to fabricate praise if it meant ending the conversation and moving onto more important matters. He could feel his nerve waning, and he knew that if he did not complete his task soon then he never would.

It worked—her red smile returned, and she bounced on the balls of her feet with excitement before catching herself and returning to a calm demeanor. "Thank you, Dr. Crane," she said, and her tone was sincere and grateful.

Crane nodded. "Think nothing of it. Now, if you'll excuse me—"

"One more thing, Dr. Crane."

"Yes?"

She pushed a stray blonde hair behind her ear, fingertips adorned with red painted nails. "You can call me Harleen."

Crane forced the corners of his mouth to twitch in the mimic of a smile before turning away from Quinzel and continuing his journey to Arkham Asylum's basement cells.

* * *

Until the 1970's, the institution's basement housed Arkham's "incurables"—patients deemed by too dangerous and deranged to ever make a full recovery and rejoin society. They were shut away in cells, out of sight and out of mind, doomed to spend the rest of their days at the mercy of constraints and bed sores. Amadeus Arkham himself was a resident of the ward; his faded scribbles still adorned the wall of his former cell, a chilling reminder of the asylum's tragic conception.

Now the basement served as little more than a grotesque mausoleum of sorts, a display of yellowed, dusty beds and dried puddles of blood. However, Killer Croc's recent arrival had created a problem for the asylum staff due to both his condition and sheer size; none of the upstairs cells were tall enough to comfortably contain a man of Croc's stature, nor were they wide enough to hold a compartment of water required for his necessary and frequent submergence. The staff had been forced to alter three downstairs cells by removing the bars separating them, creating one expansive cell large enough to accommodate both Croc and an above-ground pool. There had been an expected amount of moaning and complaining over the financial cost of such a reconstruction, particularly from Warden Sharp, but privately many of the doctors were relieved at the arrangement.

Out of sight, out of mind.

A proposed smoke break and fifty dollars had gotten Crane access to the basement unsupervised, and as he walked along the hallway leading to Croc's cell he felt the beginnings of doubt and apprehension gnawing at his stomach. He took a deep breath, lungs filling with stale, damp air, and tried not to wonder if Croc could smell him approaching.

In the darkness he could hear the splashing of water, and he gripped the pouch in his pocket tightly for reassurance.

When he arrived at Croc's cell, the scaled man rose from the pool and fixed Crane with a smile that almost sent him running back to his office. "That you, pretty boy?" Croc asked mockingly, his booming voice echoing throughout the abandoned corridors.

Perspiration chilled Crane's skin, but still he remained rooted to the spot. "Yes," he replied, and it took all of his self control to keep his voice calm and level. "I'm surprised that you remember me."

"How could I forget you? Cash broke three of my ribs during our last visit."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's alright. I got nothing but time to think about the people here who've done me wrong, and how I'm gonna get them _real good_ when I get out of here." Croc smiled again, displaying his pointed, rotten teeth. "Maybe I'll start with you, pretty boy."

"I wasn't aware that I have wronged you in any way."

"I suppose you haven't. But meat's meat, Doc. It all tastes the same, innocent or not."

Croc let out a raspy, hissing laugh and Crane tightened his grip on the pouch.

"Does anything frighten you, Mr. Jones?"

"Eh?" Croc narrowed his yellow eyes. "Don't try to psycho-analyze me, Doc, and _don't call me_ —"

"I bet you think that you aren't scared of anything." Crane's voice rose and began to shake. "I bet that you think that your strength and power makes you impenetrable to fear. But you're wrong. Every living creature fears something, Mr. Jones. Even big, _ugly_ beasts—"

Croc roared and lunged forward, thick arms straining against the bars, claws inches from his stomach—

_Now or never._

Crane ripped the pouch from his pocket and flung it towards Croc; it hit him square in the face, sending an explosion of powder into the air. Crane covered his mouth and nose with his jacket sleeve and took a step back as Croc's eyes widened in confusion; the larger man slid to the floor, his massive body landing in a puddle of water that had accumulated from his dripping skin.

For a terrifying moment, Crane wondered if the powder would work, if the man's deformed body would somehow reject the compound or—even worse—make him even angrier. His concerns were assuaged when Croc began to emit a low, droning hiss of fear, slowly growing louder and louder until his jaws flew open and he let out a thunderous scream of pure horror. He clawed at the floor, dragging pointed nails across the cement, leaving behind thick white scratches and creating a shrill, screeching noise that mingled with the melody of his terror.

The sight unnerved Crane, and he slowly backed away from the cell, his heart pounding in his ears so loudly that it threatened to drown out Croc's screams. He hadn't expected this—he hadn't known what to expect, really, but not _this_.

Croc continued to claw at the ground in a frenzy, fingers now creating smeared bloody trails instead of scratches. The blood reflected brightly underneath the cell lights, a rich, deep red that reminded him of Quinzel's lipstick and painted nails.

Cherry red.

Numbly, he wondered how her interview was going.

Crane turned on his heel and ran, down the hallway and through the corridors, up the stairs and through the wrought iron door, slamming it behind him as his legs buckled beneath him and his lungs threatened to burst. Tears prickled the corners of his eyes, but they were not the product of fear; for the first time in his life, Crane felt unbridled joy, almost childlike in its purity, and it spilled down his cheeks and beat rabidly in his chest.

He did it. He did it, he did it, _he did it_.

He had created fear, molded it with his own hands. He had created power, and he'd used it against someone that frightened him. He had literally sunk the all-mighty Killer Croc to his knees—him, Ichabod, _pretty boy_.

_He_ was the powerful one. _He_ was the one to fear.

And fear him they would.


	9. Pain, 2003

* * *

**Pain**

_2003_

* * *

Crane sat on the damp, moldy floor of Arkham Asylum's basement, staring directly into the empty cell previously occupied by Killer Croc. He turned on his flashlight and directed its orb-like glow between the cell's twisted bars; he felt a jolt of pride when he saw the streaks of dried blood on the floor, a reminder of his accomplishment and his victory over the bestial man.

Croc's furious accusations and finger-pointing towards Crane had fallen on Warden's Sharps deaf ears, and the warden made no mention of the incident to him save for a sly wink of approval during a moment when they crossed paths in the hallway. Enraged by both his treatment and the consequent injustice, Croc had responded by gripping the bars of his cell and pulling until they bent and bowed beneath his hand, stopping only when he had created a gap large enough to accommodate the width of his body. The guards had been no match for his strength, and in the midst of the chaos Croc's jaws clamped down on Aaron Cash's hand, severing it at the wrist. Another guard that rushed to Cash's aid swore that he saw the creature swallow the hand whole and emit a low belch of gluttonous satisfaction before bursting through the security doors and into the streets of Gotham.

The escape has left the entire Arkham staff on edge—Croc had threatened them all with gruesome revenge at some point—except for Crane. Much to the astonishment of his coworkers, he continued to calmly go about his business at the asylum as if event had never happened, undisturbed and cool as ever. He was not fearful that Croc would seek retribution for the incident in the basement; he had beaten him on a primal level, invoking terror unlike any that the reptilian man had experienced before, and for that he knew Croc would avoid him out of instinct and a fear of another dosage of toxin. No doubt the desire for vengeance would gnaw at the creature daily, festering inside of him along with boiling anger over his humiliation—it was a desire that Crane himself knew well—and perhaps one day Crane would have to answer for his actions, but for now he felt no concern or worry.

Croc had been the sole occupant of the basement, and his departure meant that there was no longer any security guarding the door; after obtaining the keys from Warden Sharp, Crane was now free to come and go as he pleased without bribery or interrogation. He had convinced the warden that he was on the brink of a major psychiatric discovery that would catapult both their careers, and that the basement would provide him with the privacy and room his studies required; immersed in fantasies of power and uninterested in trivial details, Sharp had relinquished the keys without question.

And now here he sat, clutching a small pouch similar to the one he'd thrown at Croc in his clammy hands and trying to work up the nerve to do what needed to be done.

He had impatiently waited in his office for the rest of the psychiatric staff to leave, irritably drumming his fingers on his desk as the remnants of his coworkers' mind-numbingly dull conversations floated down the hallway and through his office door before eventually fading along with their footsteps. When he was sure that he was alone he grabbed his briefcase and headed for the basement, his heart leaping in his chest with each step towards the heavy iron door.

He was excited for the night's event, and also terrified. He knew that this would forever change his view of the world, an irrevocable action that would either tarnish or enlighten him. He also knew that he could not spend another day of his life without the knowledge that craved, that he _needed_ ; he would rather be dead than deny himself the experience.

And yet he could not bring himself to lift the pouch to his face; his hands felt like lead, anchored to the floor by an invisible weight.

It wasn't too late. He could stop this now. He could fling the pouch into the dark recesses of the cell block, surrender his keys to Sharp along with his resignation, and maybe find a nice job as a librarian or an accountant. He could date and eventually marry, and perhaps the union would result in children. He could purchase a home on the outskirts of Gotham and sit on the front porch sipping a beer and holding his wife's hand until they were both withered and old and frail, and maybe then he would be happy. It was what everyone else did and what everyone else expected of _him_ and maybe, just maybe, he would like it and feel content.

But he knew that he wouldn't. He knew that he would hate every second of that self-created Hell, loathing his own existence just like he loathed his coworkers; he could not imagine dooming himself to a life of framed photos and family dinners and birthday parties, and it astounded him that so many would willingly and cheerfully choose that for themselves. Perhaps they did not know any better, but Crane did, and he would never, _ever_ damn himself to such a miserable fate.

With firm resolution and an iron grip he opened the pouch, brought it to his face, and took a deep breath.

The powder he inhaled scratched at the back of his throat and burned his lungs; he choked, gasping for air as he loosened his tie. He took in great gulps of the stale basement air, but they did nothing to sooth the pain growing in his chest. His vision grew blurry and his face felt hot, and Jonathan Crane wondered if he had made a very grave mistake.

He lay on the floor, bringing his knees to his chest and closing his eyes as he waited for either the pain to pass or for death. Both options would be a blessing—anything to end the suffocation and the ache and the growing dread.

After an eternity in darkness he summoned the courage to slowly open his eyes, and what he saw made him immediately regret that decision.

He was lying on the dirt path he had walked countless time during his childhood, hard clods of dirt and pebbles digging into his face and bare hands. There was a slight breeze, cool enough to grant the briefest moment of relief underneath the hot Georgia sun, and the infinite rows of cornstalks before him danced in the wind as if inviting him into their lush green field. He rose to a sitting position, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. There was something else in the distance, too far away for him to properly identify. Fresh dread washed over him; he did not _want_ to know what it was, yet he could not bear to _not_ know. He felt an overpowering, almost magnetic attraction towards the strange object, and he was defenseless against its pull.

He rose to his feet and walked into the cornfield; the stalks parted for him, clearing a path towards what was undoubtedly his doom. His legs moved as if he had no control over them, placing one foot in front of another in robotic motions. With every step his terror grew; he was certain that he would be dead from the suspense alone before he reached the end of his journey, and the identity of the object would forever remain a mystery.

_No_. He _had_ to know; even if it meant crawling on his hands and knees in the soil, dragging himself along by his fingernails, he _would_ reach his destination.

He walked for miles; the neglected muscles in his legs begin to cramp with stabbing pain and his feet blistered inside of his shoes and still he pressed on, his sweat-drenched shirt and jacket clinging to his body as his loose tie hung pitifully around his neck. He knew that he should stop and rest, but the object beckoned him forward, encouraging him to take just one more step, just one more step, just one more step...

Just when he was sure that he was about to collapse, he saw the top of the object peeking above the row of corn before him; he squinted his eyes and was able to make out a wind-beaten hat, its brown fabric faded by the sun. Confused and sick from the heat, Crane gathered his strength and lunged his body forward, falling between the cornstalks and landing on the soil in a crumpled,exhausted heap.

He lifted his head up and finally discovered the identity of the mystery that had eluded him for what felt like centuries; the object was a scarecrow, towering over him on its warped wooden post, its body clad in a patched, torn jacket and adorned with a crude, sloppy smile across its burlap face. The reveal was strangely unnerving; he felt as if it was staring into him, _through_ him with its button eyes, laughing at his thoughts and his fears and his dreams.

But that was ridiculous. It was just a scarecrow; an inanimate, oversized doll made of old clothing and cheap materials from a sewing kit. It was ludicrous to fear such a thing. After all, hadn't he seen them all the time in—

_Wait_.

This _was_ the same Scarecrow that had greeted him on his walk home from school on a hot, sticky afternoon over ten years ago. He vividly recalled the dried tears on his cheeks and the aftertaste of paper on his tongue, and the consuming rage he had felt towards his tormentor. His mouth stung at the memory of Billy Lee Walker shoving page after page of Twice Told Tales between his lips and the long-repressed anger returned, boiling through his veins until he felt as if his body would ignite from the pure hate he felt. He began to grab the corn stalks and tear at them, shredding their leaves and throwing the corn onto the ground before crushing them beneath his sore feet. He wanted to destroy everything and anything in his sight to combat the fiery storm brewing inside of him; maybe when the entire field was ravaged mess he would feel better, although it was a poor substitute for what he _really_ wanted to do to Billy. Years worth of violent fantasies of revenge flooded through his brain, and he continued his attack on the field with renewed gusto, his exhaustion long forgotten.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the scarecrow. Was it—was it _smiling_ at him? Yes, there was no mistaking it; its grin had widened into a leering, jagged line of stitches, its button eyes sparkling beneath the sun. And if it was smiling at him, then it was likely _laughing_ at him too.

Just like Billy.

He reached for the burlap with trembling hands. He would rip and tear at it until it was nothing but shreds of raveled cloth, and the scarecrow would smile and laugh no more. He would pull of its button eyes, yank out its stitched grin. He would—

The scarecrow's mouth flew open, ripping part its stitches and revealing a black gaping hole. Crane screamed and jumped backwards; he stumbled over his feet and fell to the ground, sending a sharp jolt of pain through his back. He tried to crawl away on his elbows, but terror rooted him to the spot—he was frozen, unable to move or look away from the nightmare unfolding before him.

A stream of monstrosities began to flow from the scarecrow's open mouth; large glistening cockroaches, rats crawling with fleas and lice, serpents of a variety of sizes and colors—they all streamed out of the burlap in a seemingly endless succession and headed towards Crane.

He tried to scream, but no sound would come. He vaguely remembered a Vincent Price film he saw as a child—before Granny Keeny decided that television was yet another tool of the devil and banned them from their home—in which Price's character discovers a monster that grows inside of a human's spine when they are unable to scream from fear. _It's funny how the mind works_ , he mused numbly. Here he lay, unable to move and at the mercy of loathsome, revolting creatures, and the first thing that came to mind was horror films.

A laugh began to form in his chest before rumbling through his throat and bursting through his lips. It was low and guttural at first, barely above a whisper, but as the rodents tore at his hair and snakes slithered across his skin the laughter grew louder and louder until he was positively roaring. Insects flooded into his mouth but still he laughed uncontrollably, tears streaming down his sunburned, peeling face.

_What a fitting end, Crane thought_. _The entirety of my life has been spent in or dedicated to fear, and now my fears are going to literally eat me alive_. The thought wracked his tired body with fresh, humorless laughter.

Weak from his ordeal and no longer caring what happened to him, Crane closed his eyes and prepared himself for death.

But death did not come for Jonathan Crane. Instead, he opened his eyes to find himself lying on the floor of Arkham Asylum's basement, his heart racing and his body drenched in sweat but very much alive.

He had done it. He had not only confronted his fear, _he had laughed in its face_. He had fought against his terror and he had won.

He rose from the floor and surveyed his body; no cuts, no bruises, no teeth marks. He slid off his shoes and socks and saw no blisters—the pain had been entirely imaginary, a figment of his nightmare.

Could he do this to others? Could he make them feel the same pain and suffering and anguish that he had felt? He knew that he had terrified Croc, but he had no idea if he had hurt him beyond his self-inflicted injuries. The thought of being able to simultaneously inflict both horror and pain made him feel intoxicated with power. He had often wished so many times in the past that he could cause pain, and now he could in a way that he had never imagined.

He would need practice, of course, and to test the toxin more. There was still so much to understand and so much to master. He needed to find others to subject to the toxin's effects and study their reactions, their fears, and their pain. But that wouldn't be a problem, not in Arkham Asylum.

There was a particular subject he had in mind, however. It would require a bit of traveling, but the pay-off would be well worth the inconvenience.

And he'd be sure to bring along a copy of _Twice Told Tales_ for the ride.


	10. Spite: Part I, 2003

* * *

**Spite: Part I**

_2003_

* * *

Crane was surprised by how familiar Georgia felt upon his arrival; although he had not felt clods of clay-like dirt underneath his feet or smelled the earthy scent of soil and pollen in over ten years (save for his toxin-induced excursion in Arkham's basement), the sensations were so ingrained into his memory that he felt as if it were only yesterday that he last walked the worn path that led to Keeny Manor. He had expected that his return would stir within him a variety of emotions—dread, anger, sadness—but as he he walked towards his childhood home he felt strangely calm. The hold Granny Keeny had on him was long-gone; he was free from her hate and her abuse, and she could never hurt him again.

He'd made sure of it.

The heat of the sun felt pleasantly warm on his back and he removed his coat, slinging it over his shoulder and crooking his finger into its collar. He puckered his lips and began to whistle quietly; it was not a usual habit of his and his performance was off-key at best, but the simple act itself gave him spiteful satisfaction. As a child he had not been allowed to whistle, hum, or sing; Granny Keeny had considered music to be one of the many tools the Devil employed to lead the weak and impressionable astray, and banned everything from church hymns to lullabies from their home. And now here he was, openly defying her inane rule by boldly whistling to his heart's content as he stood on the doorstep of Keeny Manor and fished in his pocket for the front door's key.

The inside of the house smelled sour and stale, a sickening contrast to the fresh air he'd so enjoyed during his walk. A thick layer of grimy dust coated the interior and pricked at his throat and nose, bringing tears of irritation to the corners of his eyes. The house had been left to rot after his departure; with both Crane and Granny Keeny absent, there had been no one to care for the numerous mundane task having a home entails and the end result was the state of unswept filth and decay that greeted Crane. He had often fantasized of taking a match to the place and watching with great amusement as it burned to the ground, but something always held him back from taking that final, permanent step; he supposed in some bizarre way he was attached to the manor, despite the many horrors he had endured during his time there. It was, after all, the only home he had ever known.

He was now more than grateful for his hesitance, for it had allowed him to set into motion the beginnings of a plan that would be impossible without the manor's existence. Both the home's seclusion in particular would work in his favor; there would be no one around to see or hear the night's events.

Crane smiled with cold, serene delight as he ascended the stairs to begin his work, leaving dusty footprints behind in his wake.

* * *

Billy Lee Walker stumbled out of the front door of the small town's only bar and into the thick, humid night air, tripping over his boots in the process. He surprised himself by regaining his balance; his usual drunken floundering often resulted in him landing on the ground and adding yet another rip or tear to his jeans. He dipped a hand into his coat pocket, roughly searching for his keys with fumbling oil-stained fingers. Billy's moral compass was horribly skewed, and if it ever occurred to him that drunk driving was both an unsafe and selfish act it either did not disturb him enough to break the habit or he simply did not care.

Billy's accomplishments after high school consisted of a job at the local auto repair shop, two marriages and two divorces, and a succession of arrest for charges varying from public intoxication to domestic violence. Perhaps Billy would have been motivated to leave his cramped hometown had he not discovered the numerous joys that alcohol provides, and he instead chose to spend the years following his graduation ceremony in a constant state of drunkenness. An aggressive personality and alcohol dependency are rarely a good combination, and his bullying grew to extend beyond the schoolyard into other facets of his life—his job, his relationships, even his day-to-day activities. The town's citizens feared Billy, and many went out of their way to avoid interaction with him lest they invoke his wrath, whether it was an expletive-ridden insult or a punch.

Truthfully, Billy quite enjoyed being a bully and the perks that the role provided. He enjoyed being strong and he enjoyed being intimidating, but most of all he enjoyed being feared. His power was made possible by the fear he created; without it, he would be nothing more than a grease monkey with a thinning hair line and a seemingly-endless trail of failures.

The road ahead of him was a blurred mess, due to both the alcohol and his unwillingness to wear his prescription-strength glasses outside of his home (in his opinion, there was _nothing_ intimidating about a man in glasses), and he leaned forward and squinted his eyes in a vain effort to improve his vision.

A harsh jolt from underneath his truck caused him to snap upright, his eyes wide and his heart racing. _Oh God_ , he thought to himself. _I've finally done it. I've finally run over someone._ The thought was enough to bring the burning alcohol from his stomach to his throat, and he suppressed a retch. His concern was not of the innocent life he was so sure he had just ended, but of the assuredly harsh punishment that lay ahead. He had managed to skate by on his previous charges with little more than the legal equivalent of a slap on the wrist, but there would be no avoiding prison for vehicular manslaughter. He was going to the big house and his life was over.

Unless he could hide the body.

Filled with fresh hope, he opened the truck door and drunkenly slid out of the passenger seat. He stumbled towards the front tires and looked underneath the truck, expecting to see gory evidence of his crime; instead he was greeted with the sight of a large wooden board adorned with several long, rusty nails jutting sharply into his tires, which were quickly deflating.

Instead of relief that he had _not_ killed someone with his selfish and illegal actions, Billy felt rage. Someone had left their junk in the middle of the road, and he had been the one to pay the price for their carelessness and stupidity. Well he'd make them pay, alright. He'd find out who did it if he had to interrogate every single person in this worthless town, but he _would_ find them and then they would pay.

He was so immersed in his fantasies of revenge that he didn't hear Crane slowly creep towards him, camouflaged by the night, much less have time to react after the syringe plunged into his neck and sent him into a darkness of his own.

* * *

When Billy awoke his first thought was that he did not recognize the room he was in. There was no light, save for the beams of sun shining through dusty window blinds, and as far as he could tell he was alone. As he gathered his thoughts, he realized that he was seated in a chair; he tried to rise and found that he could not—his body was strapped down. His hands, his legs, his shoulders, even his neck—all bound. By rope? No, too thick. His binds dug into his skin and felt strangely sticky—duct tape! He was tied down by duct tape! And if he could somehow get to the knife he carried in his pocket, he'd cut himself loose and then use it on whoever the hell brought him here.

But who would do such a thing? He had no shortage of enemies, but he knew no one with the gumption nor the bravery to pull off such an act. Most people wouldn't dare look him in the eye, much less knock him out and drag him to God-knows-where for God-knows-why.

He would have to sit and wait for an answer—not that he had much choice in the matter.

After what felt like an eternity, he heard footsteps and the turning of a doorknob.

"Hello?" Billy called out, unable to turn his head to welcome his visitor. "Who's there?"

He heard the door open and close, then more footsteps moving closer and closer towards him until he was sure that his assailant was right behind the chair, staring down onto the top of his balding head.

"I said, who's there?"

Silence.

Billy licked his lips apprehensively. "Look, I don't got much money in my wallet, but you take me to the bank and I'll get you whatever you want out of my savings account. I got a nice chunk of change in there." It was a lie; he lived paycheck to paycheck and no longer even had them direct-deposited into his account. "Just let me go get you some money, and we can pretend this never happened, okay?" Another lie. He hoped his sounded convincing.

"I don't want your money," a quiet voice said, breaking the silence. Judging from the voice, his assailant was a man, and his reserved tone struck Billy as familiar.

"Well, what do you want then?" Billy replied, wracking his brain to determine who the unknown man was. "Listen, buddy, name it and it's yours."

"Anything?" the voice asked, and the way he spoke sent chills down Billy's spine and made him almost regret the proposition.

"Yeah, anything." Why not? What did he have to lose? If only he could get one of his hands free...

He felt the man move from behind the chair to his side before slowly stepping in front of him, his face still obscured by the darkness.

"I'll tell you what I want, Billy." The man leaned forward, the beams of light illuminating his face, and Billy's jaw dropped open in shock and confusion when he saw who he had been speaking to.

"I want revenge," Crane said, his smile wide and dangerous.


	11. Spite: Part II, 2003

* * *

**Spite: Part II**

_2003_

* * *

Crane stared down at Billy, relishing in the power he held over him. For years, Billy had tormented him, making his life a living hell to the point where Crane spent his nights wishing that he would die in his sleep just so that he wouldn't have to wake up and endure another torturous day at school. He had been at the mercy of Billy's contemptuous insults and hateful fists up until the day he graduated from their cramped, rickety school and left for Gotham—but no more. Never again.

Now Crane was the one in charge. _He_ was the one in control. _He_ was the one to be feared.

And Billy _would_ fear him. Before the day was over, Billy would be a simpering, sweat-drenched puddle of a man, broken and horrified beyond sanity. While the rest of the town spent their mornings sipping black coffee and wiping the remnants of sleep from their eyes, Billy would begin his descent into unparalleled horror. Only then would his debt be paid, and only then would Crane feel the satisfaction that he had long craved and was owed to him.

The corners of Billy's mouth began to twitch—was he crying already? _Coward_. He hadn't even given him the toxin yet.

No. He wasn't crying. He was _laughing_.

_Laughing._

Unbelievable.

"What is so funny?" Crane asked sharply.

Billy grinned up at Crane, revealing teeth yellowed by cigarettes and neglect. It was a grin that Crane was well acquainted with, and was often accompanied by a punch to his gut, a shove to the ground, or another act of bullying aggression. In spite of his obvious upper-hand, Crane's stomach turned at the sight of the familiar vile leer. But why? Billy couldn't hurt him—he was bound to a chair, powerless and unable to move. He posed no physical threat to Crane. He swore at himself inwardly, angry at his moment of weakness.

"I'm laughing at you, Ichabod."

Crane blinked in surprise, taken aback by Billy's mockery. He had always known Billy to make less-than-wise choices, but taunting the person who had tied him to a chair and threatened revenge for years worth of torment was an entirely different level of foolishness.

"What did you say?" His voice was dangerously quiet; a less-brazen and perhaps more intelligent man would have recognized his tone as menacing, but Billy Lee Walker was neither docile nor brilliant. Instead he choice to laugh even more loudly, taking delight in Crane's obvious growing anger.

"I said, I'm laughing at _you_ , _Ichabod_."

Rage flowed through Crane, setting his veins afire and his heart into a blazing inferno of hate. Before he even realized what he was doing, he had bent down and spat right onto Billy's face. The crude display of animosity brought him no comfort or relief and only succeeded in making Billy howl even more loudly with laughter, his face wet with shining flecks of saliva.

"You've always been trash, Crane. You and that creepy hag you call a grandmother." He smirked. "Everyone thinks you did that pld crone in, you know. Did her in, then ran off to wherever it is you've been all these years. The only reason the cops didn't come looking for you is because no one gives a damn about you or your—"

"Shut up!" Crane slammed his fist down on a nearby table, sending a wave of pain through his arm. He winced at the throbbing ache in his wrist, then turned to face Billy. "Shut your mouth. You're not the one in control anymore. _I_ am. And you don't talk until _I_ _say_ you can talk." He leaned forward, hands gripping the arms of the chair, and stared straight into Billy's face with eyes full of burning revulsion and scorn. "That's your problem, Billy. You don't know how to keep your mouth shut. It's why you were a stupid, dull brute in high school and why you grew up to become an even bigger and even more stupid and even _more_ dull brute who spends his miserable life in either a drunken haze or inside of a jail cell." He smirked. "Oh yes, I know all about you, Mr. Walker. Tell me, how does it feel to be such a pathetic failure? Hmm? I would imagine that it doesn't feel very pleasant or satisfying, but then again you're the one with all the experience."

Anger flashed briefly across Billy's face before shifting into an amused smile. "As opposed to you, Ichabod? What exactly have you got to be so proud of, besides being an even bigger freak now than you were as a kid?"

Crane's eyes traveled towards his briefcase lying on the table. "I've kept myself busy," he replied coolly. "Which is much more than I can say for you."

Billy chuckled rudely. "Yeah, sure. And what is it that you do? Is creeping around in the dark and kidnapping people a daily thing for you?"

Crane narrowed his eyes. "If I were you, I'd be much more concerned about my own skin than asking pointless questions."

"Oh, give it a rest already. We both know you ain't gonna do anything to me. At the most, you're gonna maybe knock me around a bit with your dainty little fists before I get lose and beat the ever-loving hell out of you. Then I'm gonna walk right out that door, figure out where exactly I am, then find the nearest police station and have you arrested." Billy raised his eyebrows with in an exaggerated gesture of false excitement. "Hey, maybe they'll send you to the nut house! You'd fit in real good there, I bet. King of the freaks."

Crane clenched his hands into fists, roughly digging his fingernails into his palms. "I believe I told you to _shut up_ ," he hissed through gritted teeth.

Billy sensed that he had struck a nerve—a talent common amongst bullies, and a skill that Billy had fine-tuned throughout his lifetime. He ran his tongue across his teeth, that leering grin splayed widely across his face; Crane was reminded of a lewd version of the Cheshire Cat. "You think you're something special," he continued, "just because you got a good suit and good shoes and a nice city-boy haircut, but really you're just the same scared, weak kid I knocked the snot out of just for kicks. That's why I did it, you know. Not 'cause of anything you did, but just 'cause I wanted to and I could. What do you think of that, Ich—"

He did not get a chance to finish his cruel diatribe before Crane's fist slammed into his mouth, effectively cutting him off mid-sentence. Crane swung his arm back and connected with Billy's face again, this time scraping the back of his hand on his teeth. He punched Billy over and over again, the bone of his knuckles digging into cartilage and soft flesh. Warm blood splashed across his face and turned the white sleeve of his shirt a deep wet red; images of the scratches of dried blood on the floor of Killer Croc's cell and Quinzel's shiny red nails flashed through his head, and he felt bile rising in his throat. But he could not stop—it was as if his fist were a separate entity from his body and he was merely a horrified spectator watching from afar.

No, he could not stop, not even if he wanted to—and he _didn't_.

Only when his breath burst through his lips in ragged gasps did he take a step back, heart pounding and lungs aching, and surveyed the damage. Billy's face was a red mask of slick, bright blood, his nose bent crooked at an unnatural angle and his right eye swollen almost completely shut. Crane's own hand was covered with blood—both his and Billy's—and a collection of small cuts from where Billy's teeth had met his flesh; he turned it over, staring at it with sickened fascination. It was an astonishing vision—for the first time, he literally felt the blood of someone _else_ on his hands. It was he who had been the perpetrator, the aggressor. _He_ had been the one to inflict pain.

It was a strange feeling, and one that he was not sure if he liked.

A wad of blood and phlegm hit his shoe, and he looked up to see a grinning Billy; his chipped, jagged smile was gruesome on his bloodied face, like a perverse imitation of a Halloween mask, and Crane's stomach turned at the sight of it.

"Your grandma teach you how to fight, Crane? Is that the best you can do?"

Crane sighed wearily. He removed his blood-splattered glasses from his face and attempted to clean them with the end of shirt; when he placed them back onto his nose, his surrounding were still stained with pink smears. _Like rose colored glasses_ , he thought, and sighed again.

He was unsure of what he should do next. The idea of giving Billy the toxin seemed tainted and wrong, as if it would be an overkill of sorts, and yet he knew that he could not simply untie him and part ways. It was perplexing—he had so often envisioned himself returning Billy's violence with punches of his own, and in his fantasies he had always felt powerful, strong, fulfilled. But the reality was much uglier, and brought him not satisfaction or joy. It felt cheap, unclean, not like the psychological purity that fear provided.

"Crane. Crane."

He turned to face Billy, almost hopeful that the man would offer a solution. "What?"

"Didn't you learn _anything_ from me beating on you all those years?"

Crane lunged forward, grabbed Billy by the shoulders, and pushed. The chair hobbled on its back legs for a split second before tumbling backwards. Billy had just enough time to widen his eyes in surprise before his head struck the side of the table with a sickening thud and the chair hit the ground.

Then there was silence.

_Oh my God_ , Crane thought, his heart pounding in his chest. He hadn't _meant_ to do it, it had just _happened_ —was he dead? Had he killed him?

Billy let out a low groan of pain and Crane breathed a sigh of relief. At least he wasn't dead. But what now? Should he take him to the hospital? _Could you help my friend here_ , he imagined himself saying to the emergency room attendant, _I tied him to a chair, beat him mercilessly, then made him crack his head on the table—is there anything you can do?_ He was sure that would go over swimmingly with the hospital staff. He sighed again, this time out of tired despair, and walked out of the room, leaving Billy alone on the floor.

The morning sun warmed him as he walked through what was once Granny Keeny's blossoming vegetable garden; now all that remained was barren, old dirt, as dead as Granny Keeny herself. He remembered tilling the fields as a child, sweating pouring down his face and blisters forming on his hand as he worked beneath her vulturous gaze, a cold glass of tea in her gnarled hand. He remembered her clothing the garden's scarecrow in his old and now too-small black suit, the same suit he wore to church on Sundays before Granny Keeny decided that the clergy were a bunch of godless sinners and that they would no longer be attending services, and he remembered the way the tattered cloth fluttered in the hot breeze, a reminder of his forced solitude and loneliness.

The scarecrow was still there; its burlap face was now faded and featureless, and his suit had long ago been destroyed by nature's elements. But still it stood proudly above the garden, and judging from the lack of birds surrounding the garden it was still performing its silent duty. He recalled his vision in Arkham's basement, and for a second he considered reaching forward and checking to make sure that no horrors hid behind the burlap. But that would be foolish, and he'd already done enough foolish things this morning.

As he stood underneath the Scarecrow's shadow, he thought about Billy and how he had called him a failure. In truth, _he_ was the failure. He had sunk to Billy's level—he had become violent and crude, using his fists as a weapon instead of his mind. Perhaps he was not as powerful as the thought he was; he had learned how to harness fear and use it to his own advantage, but still he lacked the self-control to successfully execute his plans—and he had so _many_ plans, so _many_ things he wanted to do with his new-found knowledge. But he would never be able to do that so long as he allowed primitive emotions and urges to overpower him; he was better than that, and he knew it. The anger he felt towards Billy was nothing compared to the disgust and shame he felt towards himself—he had sacrificed a rare opportunity. just for a few moments of brutality.

But it wasn't too late. He could still make it right. Yes, the effects of the toxin would be contaminated by his foolish actions, but it would work nonetheless; Billy would still be cast into his own personal Hell, and Crane would still be the creator and the master of his horror. The experience might no longer be pure, but it was _something_. Crane loathed waste, and he would be damned if he was going to waste his chance for redemption and retaliation.

He was calm as he walked up the stairs and towards the room where he had left Billy—no longer would he allow Billy to affect him with his vulgar, foul words, and he would no longer deign himself with uncivilized actions. All Crane had to do was remain stoic, and Billy's filth would soon be turned into sweet screams of terror.

He could do it. He was in control. He was the master.

"Rise and shine, Billy," he said coolly as he crossed the room to where Billy lay still on the floor. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the puddle of blood pooling beneath Billy's head, and his breath caught in his throat.

_No no no no no no no_

In a split second he was beside Billy, his fingers at his neck in a desperate search for a pulse. Nothing.

Billy was dead, and Crane had killed him. He would be forever deprived of his victory; Billy had won yet again, for the final time. Even in death, he had managed to defeat Crane.

" _Dammit_ ", Crane hissed, unable to hold back angry tears. He didn't know who he was more mad at—Billy for dying, or himself for allowing it to happen.

He sat beside his corpse, alone with his anger and his failure, and when the pool of blood spread towards his shoes he did not bother to move.


	12. Burlap, 2003

* * *

**Burlap**

_2003_

* * *

Crane sat at his office desk, his head cradled in his hands and his mind heavy with thoughts of blood and soil and death. It had been two weeks since his return from Georgia, two weeks since his failure. He had spent the day of Billy's death in a detached haze, his eyes red from dried tears and his blood cold as he set about ridding Keeny Manor of any trace of Billy Lee Walker. As he shoveled dirt in the garden, he mused to himself that it was somewhat fitting for Billy's final resting place to be alongside Granny Keeny's, his two tormentors sharing a crypt of soil for the rest of eternity; they had brought him years of misery and pain, and now they would rot together.

It brought him no comfort that he had been the one to end their lives; with Granny Keeny, it had been a matter-of-fact affair, the first step in his journey to a new life. He had killed her out of necessity rather than revenge, and the act itself had not been particularly satisfying. He _had_ to do it—he could not leave her behind after all that she had done to him. He could not truly be free as long as she was alive, her lungs full of fresh Georgian air and her heart full of hate, and so the night after his high school graduation he had crept into her room as she slept and pressed a feather pillow onto her face. She had clawed at him with her gnarled hands, her long nails scraping across his skin and leaving behind thin trails of blood, but still his grip remained firm and determined, his jaw set and his face vacant of any emotion. Eventually her muffled screams faded to silence, and when he was sure that she was dead he lifted the pillow and looked into her lifeless eyes; her mouth hung open in eternal fear, her face frozen and wet with spittle and tears. He covered her with a blanket, carried her into the garden, and placed her in her grave before returning to his room, where he slept peacefully for the first time in his life.

He had cleaned up Billy's blood with a bottle of old oil soap he found in a kitchen cabin, ripping up one of Granny Keeny's moth-eaten dresses and using it for rags; later, he burned the red-stained cloth and the shreds of duct tape in the backyard, turning the evidence of his crime into ashes. He returned the chair he had used to secure Billy back to its place at the kitchen table, and after a thorough scan of the house he was confident that he had concealed any indication that Billy had ever been inside of Keeny Manor. His ultimate saving grace was Billy's cruelty—true, it would be only a matter of time before his disappearance was discovered, but this inevitable revelation would not result in any concern or an investigation. Crane imagined that the town's citizens would feel rather relieved to no longer have to deal with his hostile behavior, and the police department was not renown for their sleuthing abilities; perhaps they would ask questions, or even go so far as to report him missing, but never in a million years would they suspect that Jonathan Crane had arrived in town after a lengthy absence to avenge an over-a-decade-old grudge. He had already gotten away with murder once—even if Billy _was_ telling the truth about the rumors surrounding his departure, he had never received so much as a phone call from law enforcement—and he fully expected to get away with it once more.

But there was another burden to replace his lack of concern over being caught—the burden of waste. He had destroyed an irreplaceable opportunity with his weakness; he had allowed himself to be overtaken with reckless emotion, and as a result he would never have the chance to avenge the four years of torture he had endured at Billy's hands. He had not sought death as vengeance, but fear—he had wanted Billy to feel fear in its purest form, to scream in horror at the nightmares unfolding before his eyes until his throat was raw and his breath was reduced to ragged, tearful gasps. But instead Billy had died as he had lived, laughing at Crane and mocking his every action right up to the moment of his demise; Crane doubted that Billy had been afraid even when his blood pooled around him and the beating of his heart began to slow. His only consolation was the edge of panic he had heard when Billy attempted to bargain his way to freedom, but that was worthless when compared to the savage terror he had wanted him to experience.

He had lost, and Billy had won, and nothing in the world could ever change that. But his trip to Georgia had not been a complete loss; he had discovered another aspect of himself there, another path to inspiring and creating fear. It was now as much a part of him as his flesh and his blood, and he had brought it home to Gotham, holding it close as one would an invaluable treasure.

The sound of knuckles rapping against his office door pulled Crane from his thoughts and back into reality; he quickly lifted his head and straightened in his chair, grabbing a pen and hovering above a stack of paperwork to appear as if he had just been interrupted in the midst of his work.

"Come in," he said briskly, his eyes remaining fixated on the papers and files before him.

The door opened and Warden Quincy Sharp stepped into the office, a plump hand wrapped around his ever-present cane and his usual expression of pomposity etched firmly upon his face. "Good morning, Dr. Crane," he said, crossing the room to stand before Crane's desk. "I trust that I am not disrupting you?"

"Of course not, sir," Crane said, forcing himself to smile. "Please, have a seat. May I get you a cup of coffee?"

Sharp gave a hasty shake of his head. "No, no thank you dear boy, I'm afraid I've only a moment to spare. It occurred to me this morning that you returned from your vacation recently and I thought I would stop by and welcome you back to our humble abode." He let out a light chortle at the last sentence, clearly impressed with his unexceptional sense of humor.

_I've been back for two weeks, but who's counting?_ Crane thought wryly. He had found the warden's arrogance and snobbery to be repulsive at best, but for now it benefited him to play along and continue to feed the man's already overinflated ego.

For now.

"How kind of you," Crane replied. "Especially considering how busy a man in your position is."

Sharp grinned and waved a dismissive hand, obviously pleased with Crane's assessment of his power. "I'm never too busy for my staff, dear boy. Did you do anything exciting during your vacation?"

"Well..." Crane paused. "Does sleeping late count?"

The warden laughed and clapped a hand onto Crane's shoulder; Crane managed to suppress a recoil at the last minute, swallowing his distaste as he continued his charade of feigned interest.

"Indeed it does, Dr. Crane, indeed it does!" He removed his hand from Crane's shoulder—much to his relief—and returned to his usual conceited demeanor, straightening his spine and lifting his nose into the air; Crane sometimes wondered if anybody was ever actually as impressed by the warden as he was with himself.

"I don't mean to be rude, sir, but I'm afraid I have an appointment in thirty—"

"Of course, of course! Speaking of your work..." Sharp glanced nervously at the door, as if he were concerned that someone was standing on the other side, their ear pressed eagerly against the wood in an effort to hear their conversation. "Are there any recent developments that I should be aware of?"

Crane had absolutely no intentions of revealing any of his "recent developments" to the warden; however, as the basis of his employment was his extracurricular research, he had been providing Sharp with highly-condensed versions of his notes—the man believed that Crane was simply studying fear instead of _creating_ it. The reports were full of psychiatric buzz-words and contained very little substance, but Sharp claimed to find them "intriguing" and "highly educational"; privately, Crane suspected that Sharp did not understand a single word in them.

"Oh, yes," Crane said lightly. "Everything is coming along swimmingly. I'll have a report ready for you within the week."

"Excellent, excellent." Sharp gave a sly wink that Crane found nauseating. "I'll let you get back to work then, Dr. Crane...and _do_ let me know if there's any way I can be of service."

Crane smiled and nodded, and after the warden had left he allowed himself the luxury of a weary sigh of disgust. Sharp was not a difficult man to deceive, but Crane found conversing with him trying all the same; he despised every loathsome facet of the man's personality, from his boastfulness to his ineptitude, and dreaded their interactions when he delivered his reports. He looked forward to the day when Sharp's services would no longer be needed—and at the rate things were going, that would be sooner rather than later.

He listened attentively for the sound of Sharp's footsteps to fade away to silence; when he was certain that the man had left the hallway, he rose from his chair and locked his office door. He returned to his desk, retrieving his key ring from his pants pocket and selecting a small metallic key before inserting it into the lock on his desk's bottom drawer. He carefully slid it open, holding his breath as he slowly revealed its contents.

The burlap face of the scarecrow from Keeny Manor's farm stared up at him, featureless save for its empty eye sockets; the fabric had been faded from the sun's rays and battered at the mercy of nature's elements, but still it seemed to breath underneath his fingertips, coming alive at his touch. It had watched him for years, from his childhood spent tending to the garden to the burial of Granny Keeny and Billy; it _knew_ what he endured, it _knew_ his darkest secrets, and still it did not judge. He had tried for over a decade to sever ties with his life in Georgia, but now he realized that had been a mistake—it was better to embrace his past rather than attempt to erase it, to learn from the fear that he had experienced instead of trying to forget it. To hide was to be weak, and he would _never_ allow himself to be weak again.

Through fear he would become powerful, but he could not do it as Jonathan Crane; as a man, he was bound to human limitations and vulnerabilities, but as an entity he could be impenetrable, unfathomable. _Feared_.

Alterations would need to be made—the burlap would need to be mended and re-tailored to truly become _his_. He would mold and shape the fabric until it was his new face, and then he would be free; free from societal restraints, free from charades of emotion, free from _life_. There would be nothing but exquisite fear in all its awful glory, and it would be an experience he would share with a select few until he learned to fully harness the power of fear.

Then he would share it with the world.


	13. Dreams, 2004

* * *

**Dreams**

_2004_

* * *

The moment Jonathan Crane first stepped foot into Gotham City and felt the hard, foreign crunch of gravel and concrete instead of the firm earth of Georgia beneath the soles of his heavily-worn shoes, he had resolved himself to forgetting the past eighteen years of his life and moving forward as if nearly two decades worth of torment and misery had happened to some other unfortunate soul rather than the shabby, wide-eyed young man with a full scholarship to Gotham University and enough determination to fuel even the most ambitious of dreams. He expected that forgetting would be easy; after all, his future would entail so many new studies and experiences that he simply would not have any spare time to waste dwelling on unpleasant memories. He would forget Granny Keeny's gnarled fingers caressing her Bible with more affection than she ever showed towards Crane, hatred etched into every line on her time-ravaged face as she dragged him across the farm with surprising strength, and he would forget the menacing caw that echoed throughout the atrium as the crows made their descent. He would forget the many afternoons spent washing the dried blood and dirt stains from his tattered clothes, scrubbing the fabric until holes began to form and his hands were a raw, angry red. He would forget the dread that clung to him like a parasite, controlling his every move and twisting his stomach into knots of anxiety, and he would forget how weak and powerless he was made to feel.

He would forget it all, and he would be happy.

He quickly learned, however, that forgetting was far from an effortless task; within the first week of his arrival at the university, he awoke in the middle of the night to find himself in a crumpled heap on the floor of his dorm room, his body encased in his blanket and his hair drenched with cold sweat. He had dreamed that Granny Keeny had crawled out of her grave, reaching towards him with bony, decaying fingers as he stood rooted to the spot in fear. She did not speak, yet her intentions were clear; in her life she had caused him an indescribable amount of pain, and now she meant to resume her infliction of suffering by dragging him into the ground with her. His mind screamed at him to run away, to kick at her, to do _anything_ , but horror and shock rendered him frozen, and when her rotting hand wrapped around his ankle with an icy grip he did not even cry out in protest.

Mercifully, the nightmare had been interrupted by his awakening, but it was only the first of many to come. Night after night, he would dream of being trapped in the Keeny Atrium, where hungry crows with blood red eyes and scraps of clothing pinched between their beaks awaited to pick at his flesh, and of Granny Keeny in various states of decomposition, silent and intent on seeking revenge for her death. He grew to dread sleep, and placed his head on his pillow with great trepidation.

His unwanted memories were not limited to his nightly horrors; the simplest of occurrences throughout the day could inspire within him recollections so horribly poignant that it was as if they had taken place within moments rather than years. The hard crunch of an apple between his teeth brought back memories of lunch hours interrupted by Billy's fists, the warm touch of the sun on his neck returned him to days spent toiling in the fields at Keeny Manor, and the sound of a raised voice—whether in anger or in joy—caused him to involuntarily flinch in preparation of punishment. Every day was a battle between himself and his consciousness, and although he grew weary, he would not allow himself to do succumb to the past—anything short of perseverance would be a failure, and he had come too far to fail now.

After a while, the nightmares became less frequent, and by the time he had graduated from medical school the dreams had almost completely disappeared; the memories never truly faded, but became less painfully vibrant, and he was able to relax and lead a relatively peaceful existence—save for his excursions into fear, of course.

Until the night he dreamed of _her._

She was standing in a field of wildflowers, the skirt of her white dress lightly dancing in the wind along with locks of her long, chestnut brown hair. The sky was blue and cloudless behind her, and Crane felt a calm serenity as she walked towards him, her hand outstretched to reach for him. She was older now, but just as beautiful as she was in her youth; silken and radiant and devastating.

He wondered if her lips were still as soft.

_Louise._

Her hand was warm as she delicately stroked his face, her fingers tender and caressing. She looked at him with the same dark eyes that had made his heart ache all those years ago, and the corners of her mouth turned upwards into a small, tranquil smile as she lifted her face towards his. She stood on the tips of her toes to match his height, exactly the way he remembered, and pressed her lips to his.

He did not respond, remaining still and unaffected until she broke the kiss and took a step back, her eyes wet with confusion and hurt. Crane lifted a hand and gently wiped a tear from her cheek, his touch careful and kind, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear with sincere tenderness. He lingered above her for a brief moment, as if considering his actions, before giving her cheek a final, sympathetic stroke and lowering his hand to his side.

"I don't need you," Crane said softly. "Not anymore."

The sky began to blacken, swallowing the formerly harmonious environment in waves of velvet darkness, yet Crane was not afraid; instead he felt peaceful and content, accepting of the shadows and their overpowering force. As the darkness swam over them, he looked at Louise for the last time. "Goodbye," Crane whispered, and closed his eyes as the shadows enveloped their bodies and devoured the only source of light in Jonathan Crane's memory.

* * *

Crane's eyes flew open, ending the dream and returning him to reality. He glanced at his clock, squinting to make out the floating red numbers without the aid of his glasses; it was half-past two in the morning, and in three hours the alarm would blare through his room and signal that it was time for him to get ready for work.

He let out a sigh and raised himself to a sitting position, running his hands through his hair. He had not thought of Louise in years; he assumed that by now she would be married, with children and a home and a happy, traditional life, and if skinny, meek Jonathan Crane crossed her mind she likely felt a flush of embarrassment and shame. During his trip to Georgia, it had not even occurred to him to seek her out or attempt to gain any knowledge of her whereabouts, although it was certainly feasible that she had never left the small town. Despite his past feelings for her and the way she had crushed him, he harbored no desire for revenge; although her actions had been cruel, it had been apparent on the night of the dance that she had regretted her behavior, and he found it likely that if their paths ever crossed she would want to apologize. Living the rest of her life knowing that she had deeply hurt a fragile, bullied boy who disappeared the day after their graduation was a far better punishment for a person like her than anything he could possibly do to her.

That, and he simply did not care.

Any love he felt for her had long ago rotted away into nothing, and she was no longer worth his time nor his consideration. Any energy spent on her would be a waste, and Crane _hated_ waste.

Besides, he had much higher aspirations than any life shared with her could have provided him with. Perhaps that night had been for best; in a way, she had done him a favor. If they ever met again, maybe he would thank her.

The thought amused him, and there was a light smirk on his lips when he placed his head on his pillow and closed his eyes.

Jonathan Crane slept peacefully for the rest of the night, and he did not dream of Louise again.


	14. Ensnared, 2004

* * *

**Ensnared**

_2004_

* * *

"Are you sure that this is a wise decision, Dr. Crane?"

Warden Quincy Sharp wrung his hands nervously, his beady eyes darting about in his skull as he scanned the corridor near Arkham's basement door for signs of a hidden observer or any other concealed surveillance.

"There is no need to be anxious, Warden Sharp." Crane reached into his pocket and retrieved a large rust-stained key, its bow fashioned into an ornate baroque design curved around a large letter _A_ and the words _property of Amadeus Arkham_ etched along its stem in an elegant scroll. His fingers wrapped tightly around the cool iron, and for a second he allowed himself to savor the power that he held; he wondered how many hands the key had passed between in the years since Amadeus Arkham became imprisoned in his own asylum, and if those who had possessed it held even the slightest inkling of the power that Arkham could grant them. He imagined that they had been blind to the true potential of the asylum, unable to look beyond their position of meager authority to view Arkham in all its horrible and alluring splendor.

"But if someone were to _see_ —"

Crane set his jaw in annoyance, trying his best to tighten his grasp on the last shred of his rapidly-dwindling patience. Sharp's unwarranted pomposity alone was difficult enough to tolerate, but his idiocy and constant paranoia was so overwhelmingly trying that more than ten minutes in his presence caused Crane's temples to throb from exasperation and often resulted in him developing a migraine.

"As I said earlier, Warden," Crane said coolly, sliding the key into the basement door's heavy lock as he spoke, "there is no _one here_."

He carefully turned the key, digging his teeth into his bottom lip in concentration as he rattled it about inside the lock. He had learned early into his nightly excursions that there was an art to unlocking the door, and that the process required a certain degree of skill and much persistence; before his very first venture into the basement, he had spent a tiresome hour fidgeting with the lock before discovering that a particular rhythm of twisting and turning was required before its internal mechanisms would yield.

"It is nine o'clock at night," Crane began. "Most of the doctors have left by six forty-five—myself notwithstanding, of course, but as you're well aware my circumstances are a bit, ahem, _exceptional_. The janitorial staff tends to finish their duties between six or seven, eight o'clock at the very latest if they have an especially grisly mess to contend with. Blood stains can be terribly difficult to remove."

"I beg your pardon?"

"That leaves the nurses and the security guards," he continued, unfazed by Sharp's interruption. "The nurses remain at their stations at all times, as asylum protocol dictates that patients must be transported to the infirmary ward for medical care, even in emergency situations. I've been told that patients were allowed to receive treatment at their cells in the past, but ever since a rather gruesome incident several years ago involving Mad Hatter and a young nursing intern...well, I'm sure that no one wants a repeat of that disaster. It cost the asylum nearly two million dollars in settlements to the girl's family, if my memory serves me correctly."

Sharp shifted uncomfortably, clearly embarrassed at the recollection; the attack had reflected poorly on both Arkham Asylum and himself, and the media had been relentless in their coverage, reporting the gruesome event as Gotham's gossip-mongers devoured every graphic detail. "I believe the amount was closer to _one_ million," he mumbled defensively, and Crane smirked, delighted to have put a chip in the older man's overblown ego.

"Forgive my error," Crane replied smoothly. "Anyway, you needn't worry about the nurses interfering, and the guards will pose no issue either. I realize that you usually depart from the asylum no later than four-thirty and therefore have likely interacted with the night security on very few occasions..." Crane's voice trailed off as he paused to take in Sharp's sheepish expression and the pink tinge of humiliation on his cheeks, permitting himself a moment of smug enjoyment before resuming his explanation. "But it is common knowledge among the rest of us that they spend most of their shift playing poker and flipping through magazines in the boiler room, and I daresay that they'll be absorbed in their usual activities tonight while we set about our work."

"I was unaware that our security staff was so incompetent," Sharp said icily, clearly displeased with the revelation of his employees' lack of work ethic. "I've a good mind to go find them right now and—"

"If I may, Warden," Crane said, cutting Sharp's rant short, "I believe that action would be better suited for tomorrow morning. Right now we have more important matters at hand. Besides, their current preoccupation works in our favor."

"If you insist," Sharp said begrudgingly, unwilling to openly concede that Crane was right.

A sudden metallic sound indicated that Crane had finally succeeded in unlocking the door, and he pushed it open to reveal a set of cobblestone stairs descending into the basement; the absence of light made it appear as if the steps led into a dark abyss, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Sharp shudder and tighten his grip on the flashlight that Crane had given him.

"Are you ready?" Crane asked the warden, pretending as if he did not notice the man's visible discomfort.

"What? Oh, I mean—yes, yes, of course. Why wouldn't I be?" Sharp's arrogant bravado had returned, although he still clung to the flashlight as if it were a lifeline.

"Good." Crane shone his own flashlight onto the stairs, illuminating their path as he began his descent into the basement. "Watch your step. The condensation can make the cobblestone slippery."

He imagined the warden tumbling down the stars, an agonized scream of horrific pain ripping from his throat while his portly body twisted and broke as it hit each step before finally landing in a shattered, bloody pile on the basement floor.

_All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put ol' Sharpy together again!_

Crane giggled.

"What did you say?" Sharp's voice called out from several feet behind Crane. He had taken Crane's warning to unnecessary extent and was exercising an excruciating amount of caution with each step, clanking his cane against the cobblestone as he traveled down the stairs; Crane found the sound as grating as the warden himself, and he ground his teeth together as the noise bounced off the molding walls and reverberated through the stairwell.

"Nothing, sir," Crane replied, forcing himself to sound amicable.

They continued their journey in silence, save for Sharp cursing his flashlight's batteries when the light began to fade before disappearing entirely; upon reaching the bottom of the stairway, Sharp's face bore a bright red flush and glistened with sweat, his breathing labored as he gasped for air. He withdrew a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped his slick forehead, looking somewhat ashamed of his inadequate vigor.

"I'm used to taking the elevator," Sharp said jokingly, managing a weak, embarrassed smile.

"It's alright. I'm not exactly a strapping picture of fitness myself."

The words had fallen from Crane's mouth before he even realized that he had spoken them. He had spent his school years being picked last for sports teams and stumbling through physical education classes, wheezing as he willed his spindly legs to move faster and his scrawny arms to be stronger. Billy Lee Walker had dubbed him "Clumsy Crane", a cruel and mocking nickname that he hated almost as much as "Ichabod". He could not help but feel sympathy for the sweat-drenched and panting warden before him; judging from his polished and soft demeanor, he imagined that Sharp had been equally inept at sports as a schoolboy and likely possessed an unfortunate nickname of his own.

This time Sharp's smile was genuine and warm. "Thank you, Dr. Crane," he said kindly, grateful for the empathetic gesture.

Crane cleared his throat. "Yes, well...shall we continue?"

He turned away from Sharp, scolding himself for his disgustingly sentimental admonishment. What were they, _friends_? Should they sit around and exchange sob stories and cry over how mean the big bad bullies can be? For all he knew, Sharp could have been one of those bullies himself—his earlier theory had been nothing but a mere guess. Maybe they could talk about their _feelings_ and he could employ the same empty, uninterested "and how does that make you feel" line that he asked his patients during therapy sessions. He wondered what Sharp would think of his dysfunctional upbringing, or nights he spent in the Keeny atrium, or what he had done to Granny Keeny and Billy Lee Walker.

_And how did that make you feel, Dr. Crane?_

Right. Like _he_ cared. Like anyone did. He wasn't even sure if he himself cared anymore.

Pathetic. Just a pathetic, fleeting moment of misplaced sympathy, and all because Warden Sharp wasn't in peak physical condition.

_Pathetic_.

"After you, Warden," Crane said, waving a hand towards a block of empty cells.

Sharp blinked in confusion. "You keep your research in _there_?"

"Of course," Crane replied smoothly. "Where else would I keep it? After all, nobody ever comes down here. It's the perfect place to stow away my secrets."

His eyes sparkled, the corners of his mouth turned upwards into a grin devoid of any cheer or pleasantry.

"Perhaps this would be better suited for another time," Sharp said hesitantly, remaining rooted to the spot. "I really should try to go catch those guards—"

"Do you remember our first meeting, Warden?" Crane interrupted, his voice like silk.

"W-what?"

"When we met, you told me that the only way to cure an infection is to cleanse it. Do you remember that?"

Sharp did not respond. It was becoming increasingly apparent to him that something was very, very wrong. He had allowed Crane to lead him into a trap, and one with no means of quick escape.

For the first time in his life, Quincy Sharp realized that he was a fool.

Crane turned to face Sharp, illuminating the warden's frightened face for the last time before switching the flashlight off and plunging them into darkness.

"During my research, I discovered that you were mistaken, Warden."

When Crane accepted his position at Arkham, he had decided that he would play along with Sharp's charade of superiority, providing his ego with enough nourishment to keep him both satisfied and unsuspecting; he had continued to play the warden's little game throughout his employment, choosing to stop only when the opportune moment that suited him had arrived.

This was that moment.

"It turns out that only way to cleanse an infection," Crane said as he dipped his hand into his coat pocket, "is to kill it."

Crane's fingers grazed across the burlap, and in the darkness Sharp began to scream.


	15. Deception, 2004

* * *

**Deception**

_2004_

* * *

"Such a pity, isn't it?"

The sound of Dr. Joan Leland's soft voice pulled Crane from his thoughts, and he turned away from his desk to face her with an expression of feigned interest.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Warden Sharp," Leland said, her voice low and somber. "What happened to him was just... _horrible_." She shivered, clearly unsettled by the recollection.

"Ah." Of course. What else would she be talking about? It seemed like Warden Sharp had been the topic of every conversation that had taken place within Arkham Asylum's walls over the past two weeks; the doctors solemnly discussed the incident in the staff lounge, the nurses shook their heads sadly in the infirmary ward, the custodians swapped rumors obtained from eavesdropping under the pretense of cleaning, and the inmates sneered and laughed at Ol' Sharpy's grim fate in their cells.

Crane found it all very boring. After all, none of them knew what had _really_ occurred that night in Arkham's basement. Although the abundance of fabricated tales spreading through the asylum certainly worked in his favor, he was nonetheless annoyed by the constant chatter, particularly the more outlandish theories; earlier in the day, he had overheard an elderly janitor make the ridiculous claim that the ghost of Amadeus Arkham was to blame for the warden's misfortune.

"I'm tellin' ya," the old man had warned his younger coworker as Crane walked by, "I seen a lotta things happen in the thirty years I been here. There's somethin' wrong with this place. Somethin' _bad._ If you ain't crazy when you walk in, you'll be crazy when you walk out—if ya ever _do_ walk out, that is."

He chuckled darkly and shook his head before returning to his duties, smearing water the color of rust across the floor with his mop while the young man at his side remained still with a look of unease on his blanched face, clearly reconsidering his employment.

But as irksome as he found the superstitious prattle to be, it was certainly preferable to the truth, and Crane had no intentions of correcting anyone's fantastical speculations. It was _much_ more beneficial for him to remain silent.

"Yes," Crane said, doing his best to sound mournful. "It's very tragic."

Leland nodded sadly. "And to think that when I spoke with him earlier that day, he sounded perfectly fine. I had no idea..." Her voice trailed off and she sighed, blinking back tears.

It occurred to Crane that it would be appropriate and somewhat expected for him to console her; swallowing his distaste for human contact, he reached forward and lightly patted Leland on the shoulder before quickly returning his hand to his jacket pocket, privately disgusted by the display of affection.

Leland smiled appreciatively and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her doctor's coat, careful not to stain the white material with her makeup.

"Thanks," she said quietly, and Crane forced himself to smile.

"Of course."

"I just get so upset when I think about him strapped to that table, muttering to himself with that horrified look on his face. I've never seen anything quite like it in my entire career." She sighed again. "I'm just glad you were there, Jonathan. Who knows what would have happened otherwise."

Crane had fabricated an explanation for both his late presence and his "discovery" of Sharp, one that his coworkers accepted with little question and no misgivings. He claimed to have been absorbed in the meticulous process of reorganizing his patient files (a lengthy task that required more time than his already-full nine-to-five schedule allowed) when he decided to take a brief coffee break, hoping that the caffeine boost would combat the drowsy temptation of sleep; as he walked to the staff lounge where the coffee maker was kept, he overhead the sound of faint, distraught mumbling drifting from behind Sharp's cracked office door. Concerned, Crane entered the office to investigate and found the warden sitting on the floor, his body curled into the fetal position; his knees were bent towards his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around his legs, and he was slowly rocking back and forth, as if attempting to soothe himself with the infantile movement. Sharp gave no indication that he was aware of Crane's presence and continued to stare ahead with glazed-over eyes, focusing on nothing as his lips moved at a frantic pace and a barrage of whispered, unintelligible words spilled from his mouth. The cheeks that usually bore a ruddy flush were now pallid, his face ashen and gray; had Crane not known the actual cause of the warden's condition, he would have thought him to be in the throes of an illness.

The infirmary ward was contacted and Sharp was whisked away for a thorough examination. After several rounds of tests revealed no abnormalities, it was determined that the cause of the warden's sudden ailment had nothing to do with his physical health—despite his earlier self-admonishment of his fitness, he was otherwise robust for a man his age, with not so much as a high cholesterol count to indicate any sort of medical issue. Crane suggested that perhaps Sharp was suffering from a nervous breakdown, and offered to take him on as a patient of his own—so long as that was fine with the other doctors, of course. He met no resistance—no one else wanted the heavy responsibility of caring for their boss—and so the warden was placed in his care.

Although it was much too early for a diagnosis, Crane believed (or so he told his coworkers) that the horrors of the asylum had finally taken their toll on Sharp; no longer able to cope with seeing the depravity and violence of the inmates on a daily basis, his mind had shut down in an act of self-preservation. Many of his predecessors had suffered a similar fate, including Amadeus Arkham himself—and just like Dr. Arkham, Sharp was tucked away in a cell inside of his own asylum, out of sight and out of mind. The tears spilled over his condition would soon dry, and it would be business as usual; before long, Warden Sharp would be nothing more than an unpleasant memory rotting away in Arkham, another mark on the asylum's already tarnished record.

Life would go on. It always did.

And that suited Crane just fine.

"I hope that I can help him," Crane said with feigned solemnity. "I've been meeting with him daily, but—"

Before Crane could finish his sentence Leland had gathered him into a sudden embrace, her head pressed against his chest and her arms wrapped tightly around his thin frame. Every nerve in Crane's body screamed with outrage and revulsion over the unwanted contact, his skin crawling beneath his clothing as he fought the urge to recoil from her grip; he wanted nothing more than to push Leland away, to fling her across the room and take satisfaction in the sickening thud of her body hitting the crumbling walls, but instead he remained motionless, neither returning nor rejecting her grasp. This was the sort of thing that "normal" people did—although he certainly couldn't understand how anyone could actually _enjoy_ such an obnoxious gesture—and if he was to continue his charade of conformity, then he was going to have to tolerate actions that he would otherwise avoid.

He had come too far to ruin things now, particularly since he was on the cusp of finally gaining what he had wanted the moment he first shook hands with Quincy Sharp.

Sensing his discomfort, Leland stepped away, somewhat embarrassed by her display of emotion. "I...I'm sorry, Jonathan," she said sheepishly. "That was inappropriate of me."

"It's alright. Think nothing of it."

"You just looked so...so _sad_. I can tell that this incident has really affected you."

Crane bit his lip to keep from laughing. _Oh, you have_ _ **no**_ _idea._

He glanced at his watch—ten minutes after one. Show time.

"If you'll excuse me, Dr. Leland—"

"Joan."

"Sorry—if you'll excuse me, _Joan_ , I have a meeting to attend in a few minutes."

"Of course. Have a good day, Jonathan."

Crane smiled politely before averting his eyes to his desk, grateful for Leland's departure; he loathed extensive interaction with any of his coworkers, but speaking with the sickly-sweet, emotive Leland was especially irritating. She was a kind woman, but she surveyed Crane with the same pitying look that he had seen many times before throughout his life and had grown to despise. He was offended by the very notion of being the subject of someone's misplaced compassion, for that implied that they thought they were somehow _better_ than him—more strong, more wealthy, more powerful. And no one was better than Jonathan Crane. _No one_.

In a matter of minutes, he would walk into a conference room, smile at Arkham Asylum's Board of Directors, and put on a show—just like he always did. He would tell them his plans for the institution—the steps he would take to repair the damage to Arkham's reputation, how intended to improve security protocol for high-risk patients and prevent any future break-out attempts, what changes he would make to the current therapy system to personalize sessions for each individual patient. He would use numbers, graphs, and terminology that the directors would pretend to understand, and at the end of his presentation there would be no questions. The directors would thank him for his time and dismiss him in order to discuss the matter amongst themselves; the conversation would be a lengthy exercise in arrogance, with every member attempting to sound more intelligent than the next, and when their egos were satiated they would reach a unanimous decision—Dr. Jonathan Crane was to replace Quincy Sharp as the administrator of Arkham Asylum.

He had no doubt that the meeting would unfold exactly how he predicted, and felt no uncertainty or apprehension; it was not egotism that made him so bold, but logic—during his employment at Arkham, he had established a reputation for being a highly-gifted psychopharmacologist, both innovative and successful. He was a more than suitable candidate for the position, and the presentation that he had crafted was full of promises that were meant to dazzle the board and distract them from any potential misgivings they might have over his application. But above all, he was skilled in the art of deception, and it was this proficiency that would ensure his victory; he knew the right things to say and when to say them, and how to speak with sincerity while lying between his teeth. It was an invaluable asset, and one that served him well.

He had briefly entertained the notion that he would be denied the position, and in that unlikely scenario he decided that he would respond by filling Arkham's air vents with his toxin powder. If he couldn't have the job, then he certainly wouldn't allow anyone else to.

After all, that would be terribly unfair.

As he stood in front of the conference room, briefcase in hand, he thought of all that he had done to reach this very moment—all of the scheming, the sacrifices, the countless lies. He had faced and conquered fear, harnessing its power for his own purposes and uses, and now he would conquer Arkham Asylum as well. It was what he wanted, what he _deserved_ , and soon it would be his.

And eventually, Gotham would be too.

Crane straightened his tie, smiled, and rapped his knuckles against the wooden door.


	16. The Offer, 2005

* * *

**The Offer**

_2005_

* * *

Crane let out a weary sigh of frustration as the coffee mug he had attempted to precariously balance atop the stack of files in his arms tipped over onto its side, spilling its contents onto the arm of his jacket; thankfully, the coffee had long ago cooled to an unpalatable temperature, sparing him the agony of a burn—still, he would have to endure the rest of the evening with a dark, splotchy stain on his suit. His presentation meant a great deal to him, and although his clothing was inexpensive and off-the-rack, he was careful to ensure that not even a stray thread or speck of lint detracted from his appearance. His shoes were regularly shined, his hair combed and neatly parted, and his face never bore even the slightest hint of a five o'clock shadow. A sloppy image was not befitting of a man of his power or position; the offensive stain was a blight upon both his clothing and his character, an indication of carelessness. He cursed himself for his lack of foresight—rather than attempting foolhardy juggling while digging in his pocket, he should have simply tucked his files underneath his arm and held the mug by its handle until his keys were successfully retrieved. Instead, he had chosen an unnecessarily difficult method, and as a result he would be forced to contend with the visible evidence of his mistake.

He supposed it was his own fault for allowing himself to become preoccupied with thoughts of his experiments; those reflections belonged to the night, where they were free to roam about in the safety of Arkham's basement, but with each passing day they were beginning to bleed into all aspects of his life. His toxin was always in the back of his mind, present from the moment that he awoke in the morning to the late hour when he finally permitted himself to close his eyes and drift off into slumber—he thought of little else, even while performing his administrative duties. He yearned for the moment that he could shed his facade of useless normality and fully devote his life to his true work without the inconveniences of society's petty constraints; there would be no more phony smiles, no more hollow conversations and empty laughs, no more tedious masquerades or disguised boredom.

Just the cold, welcoming purity of fear embracing him in all of its beautiful and horrible glory.

He sighed again. _One day_.

He turned the key in its lock and swung his office door open, eager to see if he would be able to at least partially dilute the stain on his jacket. Maybe if he dabbed at it with a handkerchief—

"Good evening, Dr. Crane."

The unexpected sight of a tall, graying man standing in the office nearly caused a startled Crane to let out an instinctive gasp and stumble backwards in shock; while he was thankfully able to maintain his composure (the mere thought of committing such an involuntary and embarrassing act, even in front of a complete stranger, made him inwardly cringe with mortification), his feigned calmness did little to quell his heart from pounding in his chest.

"What are you doing in here?" Crane asked sharply. "This is a private office. If you have an appointment—"

"I apologize for the abruptness of our meeting," the man said, his voice cool and like silk. "But it is crucial that I speak with you."

"Oh?"

"Yes. It is of the utmost importance that we discuss your work."

Crane sighed, feeling the beginnings of a migraine gnawing at his temples. The day had been trying enough already—the last thing he wanted to do was deal with a state health official or a member of Arkham's board. Although the man was much more polished than the disheveled public workers he was accustomed to—sleek and handsome, his body clad in a fine gray suit with a small blue poppy pinned onto the coat lapel—and seemed to possess a wider vocabulary as well, it was an inconvenience all the same.

"That is what _appointments_ are for," Crane said coolly, not bothering to keep his annoyance from seeping into his tone. "If you wish to discuss matters related to the asylum—"

"No, Dr. Crane. I am talking about your _other_ endeavors. Particularly your experimentation with chemicals."

_Oh_.

Crane swallowed the lump rising in his throat. "I beg your pardon?"

"Please, do not play coy," the man replied in a quiet tone that made Crane's skin prickle with nervous goosebumps. "You are fully aware that I am referring to the hallucinogenic agent that you created."

There was a moment of tense silence as Crane stared at the man in horrified disbelief. His knees felt as if they would buckle beneath his weight, and he gripped the side of his desk with a shaking hand to keep himself from collapsing onto the floor. The sour taste of bile filled his mouth, his stomach churning with raw panic— _how_?! How could this man, this unwanted visitor, this _intruder,_ know about his toxin? He had covered his tracks with painstaking effort, never once relaxing in his routines—he wanted his inevitable discovery (he harbored no fantasies of forever remaining hidden in the basement's shadows) to be on _his_ terms, not at the hands of another.

"What do you want?" Crane asked, unable to prevent his voice from cracking.

The man smiled. "There is no need to be distressed, doctor. I have no desire to expose your secret. Were that the case, you would already have found yourself residing within the confines of a cell and this meeting would never have taken place. My intentions are quite the opposite—I hold an appreciation for the innovative, and I recognize a enormous amount of potential in you and your studies. However, potential means very little when it is not paired with opportunity."

Crane remained silent, still reeling from the man's revelation.

"Perhaps an introduction is in order." The man began to pace leisurely throughout the office, his eyes traveling across the numerous medical volumes displayed on Crane's bookshelves. "My name is Ra's al Ghul. Throughout Gotham, there are a number of individuals whose sole purpose is to keep me informed of what occurs within this city. Two years ago, one of them came to me and told a tale of a large, crocodile-like man whom they had met along the fringes of Gotham's criminal underbelly. The man had recently escaped from Arkham Asylum, and claimed to have been poisoned by one of the doctors there during his incarceration. Cruelty towards prisoners is not an unusual practice and in most instances would be of little interest to me, but the glimmer of fear in the reptilian man's eyes when he spoke of this mysterious doctor and his methods led my source to believe this was more than common maltreatment. I chose to investigate these allegations, and some time later I sent an informant into the asylum under the guise of a newly-hired employee."

Crane's mind raced as he mentally searched for the spy's possible identity. Arkham was notorious for its ever-changing staff and he rarely made the effort to learn his employees' names, with few able to withstand the asylum's horrors beyond the span of a few weeks—there was a large number of potential candidates, each as unlikely as the next. He could think of no one who would fit the description of what he imagined a slick informant to be—but then again, what provided better camouflage than improbability?

Was it the pimple-faced custodian, fresh out of high school? The plump nurse with thick, permed hair? The young intern who constantly chewed bubblegum and blushed whenever Crane passed by her desk? Or was the culprit a doctor, one of his fellow psychiatrists? He would never know, and the idea of a "rat" continuing to sneak through _his_ asylum undetected filled him with such anger that it momentarily overshadowed the whirlwind of confusion that Ra's presence had caused.

"You were cautious, Dr. Crane," Ra's said, "but those who work for me are trained in the art of observation. They witnessed your actions on the night that you led Quincy Sharp into Arkham's basement, and eventually procured a sample of your toxin during an excursion of their own. Dissection of the formula revealed that one of the ingredients produced similar psychedelic effects as a rare flower that grows in the mountains of Bhutan."

Ra's removed the poppy pinned to the breast of his suit, twirling it between his fingers.

"When ground up and lit aflame, the smoke from the poppies causes vivid hallucinations if inhaled. If you were to integrate the poppies into your toxin, its potency could increase exponentially."

Crane swallowed, his mouth dry. "What are you saying?"

"You would be an invaluable asset to my operation, Dr. Crane. Work with me, and you will be handsomely rewarded beyond anything that money can provide."

"And what would that be?"

Ra's smiled.

"Power, Dr. Crane. More power than you can possibly imagine."


	17. Whiskey, 2005

* * *

**Whiskey**

_2005_

* * *

Crane had never before stepped foot in a bar prior to the night that he met Carmine Falcone, and upon entering Prospero's Ball—a hole-in-the-wall tavern popular among the occupants of Gotham City's underbelly, often serving as a rendezvous site for the criminals wearing expensive Italian suits to hand over envelopes thick with cash to the criminals who wore police badges—he was unprepared for the sudden assault on his senses; wisps of smoke floated through the stale air, filling his lungs and stinging his eyes, and the taste of tobacco was sour on his tongue with every breath he took. Each step crushed littered peanut shells and cigarette butts beneath the soles of his shoes, grinding them into the already-filthy carpet and adding to its collection of curious stains. A group of men playing pool leered at him as he walked past their table, no doubt wondering just what in the hell a guy like _him_ was doing in a place like _this_ , and Crane's hand traveled instinctively to the vial of toxin in his coat pocket.

A single flick of his wrist, and the entire room would become an orchestra of screams.

"You lost, _sweetheart_?" One of the men—a tall miscreant with patchy facial hair, as tattooed as he was scarred—gave him a sly, sinister wink, and the rest erupted into raucous laughter.

The threatening mockery in the man's voice and the ensuing cackles of his friends sent a surge of hot anger throughout Crane's body, quickening his heartbeat and coursing through his shaking fingers like electricity as they lingered above the vial.

_No. You have business to attend to. What would Ra's al Ghul do if he found out that you ruined an important meeting just to get revenge on a group of drunken thugs?_

The unspoken answer was enough to make him withdraw his hand from his pocket and continue on without showing the group any sort of acknowledgment. The men snickered, pleased at what they perceived to be a shared victory and a testament to their dominance. An image of Billy Lee Walker flickered across Crane's memory, his blood pooling onto the floor of Keeny Manor; he had been of similar ilk as these men, and now he was decaying deep beneath the soil in his childhood garden. The thought brought him a small degree of morbid comfort, and by the time he slid into the booth where Falcone was seated he had regained his cool poise.

The mobster's eyes traveled up and down Crane with unabashed scrutiny, openly sizing him up with the privileged demeanor of someone who was accustomed to doing whatever it was he wanted without encountering any sort of protest; he had not yet spoken a single word, but already Crane did not like him.

"You're not exactly what I was expecting." Falcone smirked, clearly unimpressed with Crane's meek appearance.

"And what was it that you were expecting, Mr. Falcone?" Crane's voice remained flat and calm, unaffected by the obvious derision in Falcone's implication—unlike the group's earlier ridicule (he _hated_ being caught off guard, particularly when it was at his expense), he had fully expected to be at least mildly insulted by a man as arrogant as the crime lord.

"Not _you_." Falcone took a sip of his whiskey, wincing slightly as the liquid slid down his throat. "You want something to drink, doc?"

"No, thank you. And it's Dr. Crane."

"Yeah, sure thing, doc. You gonna make me drink alone?" The question was posed in a way that made it obvious that Falcone would _not_ be drinking alone, and the sooner Crane realized that, the sooner they could get down to business.

"I'll have a whiskey, then."

Crane disliked alcohol, along with any other substance that directly affected his brain chemistry—he preferred to be clear-minded and in full control of his body at all times, with the only exception being his self-experimentation with fear toxin—and he wasn't thrilled with the idea of putting his lips to any glass that came from the dingy bar, but if that was what it took to humor Falcone and get him talking, then so be it.

"That's more like it," Falcone said, satisfied with Crane's compliance. He motioned for the barmaid, and as he clapped a lecherous hand to her bottom Crane thought of Stuart and the drink he had shared with him in his office at Gotham University four years ago. _God, had it really just been four years? It felt more like a lifetime._

In a way, he supposed it was.

Falcone raised his glass. "Salute."

Crane complied for the sake of etiquette, clinking his own glass against Falcone's before taking a light sip of his liquor; the whiskey filled him with a burning warmth as it traveled down his throat, and he fought the urge to let out a raspy cough.

"Supposedly people used to toast one another so they could slosh their beverage into the other person's cup. If they took a gulp, the drink was fine. If they hesitated, then it was most likely poisoned and they had a lot to answer for. Good way to figure out who your enemies are." The corners of Falconi's lips turned upwards into a dark, humorless smile. "'Course, we do it nowadays just to be polite—but sometimes I wonder if maybe part of me does it because I think they had the right idea. I don't trust anyone, doc. That's the reason I've lasted this long while so many of my associates are either rotting in the ground or in a cell just wishing they were dead. They all trusted someone at one point, and that's why they're all gone and I'm still here. You trust anyone, Crane?"

"No," he answered truthfully.

"Good. You'll live longer that way." Falcone reached into his suit jacket and retrieved a small gold-plated case, flicking it open to reveal a neat row of thick cigars. "Want one?"

"No, thank you. I don't smoke."

"Yeah, you'll live longer that way too."

Between the still-snickering crowd ( _stupid, easily-amused animals_ ) and Falcone's boastful small-talk, Crane could feel his patience growing thinner by the second.

"I don't wish to rude, Mr. Falcone, but—"

"Yeah, yeah." Falcone waved a dismissive hand. "You wanna talk about the shipments."

"Correct."

The lit end of Falcone's cigar glowed a vibrant orange before crumbling to white ash as he took a luxurious drag, the sickeningly-sweet aroma of the smoke floating from between his parted lips and inconsiderately engulfing Crane when he exhaled.

"Your guy said that you wanted to discuss bringing in cargo. Said you'd make it worth my while."

Crane placed an envelope containing more money than he made in a year onto the table and pushed it towards Falcone.

"That's just compensation for your time tonight," he said matter-of-factly. "And an example of what you can look forward to, should you choose to accept my offer."

It occurred to Crane that he should probably be nervous—never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that he would find himself sitting across from Gotham's most influential crime-lord in a seedy pub and discussing the exchange of chemicals and hundreds of thousands of dollars—but instead he felt a strange, serene calmness. There was nothing about Falcone that intimidated him. He was well-aware of the mobster's dangerous notoriety, and yet all he saw when he looked at him was an aging man in a suit that he likely paid a stupidly exorbitant amount of money for so that he could feel prideful and self-assured of his wealth, who likely drank far too much and smoked far too much and ate far too much rich food in an effort to feel some form of temporary happiness, and would one day in the not-too-distant future die from a combination of all three vices if he wasn't introduced to a barrage of bullets or a car bomb first. Falcone knew it, his business associates knew it, _everyone_ knew it—and so whenever Falcone inhaled fine cigar smoke or wrapped his hand around a woman's flesh or commanded the end of someone's life, it was a reassurance of his mortality rather than any sort of genuine enjoyment, a physical assertion that blood still flowed through his veins and that his heart continued to beat.

He did not fear Carmine Falcone because there was nothing _to_ Carmine Falcone; Crane knew power well, knew how to create it and how to use it against others, and he knew that if Falcone were to face _his_ sort of power that he would be brought to his knees by terror. No, he did not fear the mobster—if he felt anything towards him, it was disgust.

Falcone flipped through the green bills with fingers that were accustomed to the action, a sparkle of greed in his dark eyes; when he was satisfied, he closed the enveloped and lifted his head to face Crane, a hungry smile on his lips.

"You have my attention."

And with those four words, Carmine Falcone sealed his own fate.

* * *

The tattooed man drunkenly fumbled at his keyring, searching for the one that would grant him access to his car. It was a junker for sure, sporting war wounds from several of his inebriated run-ins, but it got him from one place to the next and right now all he wanted to do was to go home. The bartender had cut him off after he had thrown a bottle at one of his pool buddies—he had _cheated_ , dammit—and there was cold beer waiting for him in his fridge.

If he could ever find the damn key, that is. Maybe if the owner would actually fix the bar's neon sign, the parking lot wouldn't be pitch black—

"You really shouldn't drink and drive, _sweetheart_."

The man whirled around angrily, only to get a face full of gas for his efforts. He coughed and sputtered, waving a hand frantically in front of his face to dissipate the smoke.

"It simply isn't safe."

Blue eyes peered at him from inside the darkness, and the man began to scream.


	18. Petals, 2005

* * *

**Petals**

_2005_

* * *

Over the course of the next several weeks, Crane made great progress on the expansion of his toxin's components, a feat made possible by Ra's al Ghul's involvement; although Crane was loathe to admit it, the inclusion of the blue poppies had created a potency that made his previous formula look like a juvenile creation worthy of a first-year chemistry student. He had taken a guarded approach to his first experiment with the flowers, still distrustful of both the mysterious Ra's and his grand offers. As he sat in Arkham's basement, hunched over a granite pestle and mortar set and grinding the blue petals into a fine powder, he wondered if he was making a dangerous mistake. He knew nothing of the flower's properties, and yet he was expected to set it aflame and inhale its fumes. Ra's had given his word that he would suffer no permanent or otherwise damaging effects beyond temporary hallucinations, but this provided Crane with little comfort—he trusted no one, least of all a man as secretive and quietly intimidating as Ra's al Ghul. While he had not outright threatened to expose Crane's research and the truth about Quincy Sharp's sudden decline, Crane was well aware that refusing to cooperate would be an unwise decision and perhaps the final one that he would ever make outside out of a prison cell.

But as frightening as the prospect of having his hidden life discovered was, the most alluring motive for agreeing to work with Ra's had been the opportunity to make his toxin even more powerful than before. It was greed and not coercion that led Crane to fill his lungs with the smoke from the burning poppies, the bowl warm in his hands as he coughed and sputtered, his face lit by the orange glow of flames in the basement's darkness.

The effects were instantaneous, beginning even before the raw ache in his throat had subsided. Shadows seeped from the basement's dark corners like thick oil, swimming in his vision to form grotesque faces and sinewy limbs with hands that were more talon than human. Jet-black feathers erupted from the shadows' open mouth, the hellish plumage spilling onto the floor as its willowy arm stretched towards a trembling Crane. The distant sound of a crow's cry echoed through the basement, menacing and shrill, and filled Crane with the familiar dread of his childhood nights spent in the Keeny Atrium. He could feel the tight grasp of Granny Keeny's skeletal hand encircling his wrist and smell the putrid, stale aroma of the too-small suit he was forced to wear during his visits to the atrium, and when he instinctively attempted to dig his heels into the ground he felt a carpet of soil beneath his feet rather than Arkham's stone floors.

" _Jonathan. Jonathan..."_

Overpowering terror left him unable to move, frozen even as the shadows caressed his face with claws that dragged across his skin and left behind white-hot scratches. A voice withered from decay hissed into his ear as fat worms and clods of dirt fell from between its parted lips and spilled onto Crane, his stomach lurching from repulsion and fear. It had spoken his name for last time fourteen years ago, muffled beneath a floral-printed pillow as its owner scratched and kicked and screamed in vain; since that night, the voice existed only in dreams that left his body drenched in cold sweat and fistfuls of blanket clenched tightly in his hands.

" _You'll never be rid of me, Jonathan_ ," the voice whispered, and the crows cackled at his misfortune as his vision faded to black.

* * *

Crane sat in his office, his brow furrowed in concentration as he studied the scattered contents of a patient's file. At times his eyes would dart from his reading to the bottom drawer of his desk, as if the burlap mask locked inside was calling to him, beckoning Crane to set it free with enticing promises of the pleasure they would share.

_Not now. Later._

He returned to file, intent on finishing his work. Moments passed, and again he found his vision drifting towards the drawer, his every sense aching with yearning for the mask. He wanted to run his fingers along its mouthful of jagged stitches, to breathe in the musty scent of mold and weathered years spent faithfully guarding his garden, and to feel the itch of the fabric's rough texture against his face as the mask slipped over his head. It was his second skin, his true identity, and the only thing that he had ever truly loved; he now realized that his feelings towards Louise were nothing more than a childish facade when compared to what he felt for the mask, and he was embarrassed for having ever experienced them. The mask was just as much a part of him as his flesh or his blood or his beating heart, and now that it had returned to his life he never intended to part with it again.

His keys were in his hand before he even realized what he was doing.

* * *

"Good evening, Mr. Sharp."

Quincy Sharp lay stiff beneath gurney restraints, his lips moving frantically with wordless babble as he gazed blankly up at the ceiling. He gave no indication that he was aware of Dr. Crane entering his cell—this lack of acknowledgment was to be expected, and Crane's greeting had been as pointless as it was emptily cordial. Sharp was sadly oblivious to the world surrounding him, cognizant only to the stream of delusions flowing through his brain. The erstwhile warden had not spoken a word beyond unintelligible mumblings since the night of his fateful descent into Arkham Asylum's basement, and it was likely that the man who had so often annoyed Crane with his boastful, incessant prattling would never speak again.

Even Crane could admit that Sharp's deteriorated appearance made for a disturbing sight; his chin shone wet with spittle, his beady eyes danced madly with unending terror behind his thick-rimmed glasses, and the front of his orange jumpsuit bore damp stains of sweat. Gone were the handsome fine suits and expensive ties he had so proudly sported, now replaced by a bright orange uniform that hung loosely from his frame and plain shoes without laces. All that remained of the man who had welcomed Crane to Arkham Asylum—and thereby invited his own demise—was a feeble ghost, a tragic testament to the mind's dominion over flesh and blood.

Crane felt neither guilt nor remorse over his role in Sharp's destruction. The asylum's former administrator had made no secret of the disgust he harbored towards Arkham's inhabitants, and would have gladly inflicted a similar fate onto each and every one without hesitation if he thought it would bring him even a single step closer to his desired power. He had been every bit as dangerous as Crane, but not nearly as resourceful or clever, and his short-sighted greed had resulted in his downfall and Crane's prosperity.

But even in his current state, Sharp was still able to play an important role in Crane's plans.

_After all,_ Crane thought, an amused smile on his lips as his fingertips grazed the mask concealed within his jacket, _he could still scream._


	19. First We Hide, 2006

* * *

**First We Hide**

_2006_

* * *

"How are you feeling this evening, Mr. Schiff?"

Crane's patient said nothing. Instead he continued to gaze wildly up at Crane from his prone position on a gurney, his upper body encased in a straight-jacket and his thin lips spread into a wide deranged grin that exposed teeth yellowed from years of neglect.

A paranoid schizophrenic and resident of Arkham Asylum for the past two years, Thomas Schiff was an ideal test subject for Crane's experiments. His frequent delusions and constant state of paranoia made it all the more easier for Crane to delve into his psyche and bring forth his most intimate horrors to dissect and explore; his mind was malleable in Crane's hands, as ripe as the Georgian peaches he had stolen from a neighbor's orchid as a child and every bit as sweetly rewarding. Schiff's reaction to the toxin had continued to be nothing short of exquisite, both educational and—if Crane was completely honest— _highly_ flattering.

"I trust that you are comfortable?"

Schiff's only reply was a succession of bubbling giggles, which suited Crane fine; the questions had been posed out of an ingrained sense of manners rather than any genuine concern. The comfort level of his test subjects was a far too trivial matter to contemplate—after all, one could never truly be "comfortable" while tightly restrained inside a damp basement that stank of mold and rot—and held about as much interest for Crane as the idea of perusing through Bruce Wayne's latest trust fund-fueled escapades in _The Gotham Times_ or holding a lengthy conversation with an especially caffeinated Dr. Quinzel. It was only when the toxin was introduced that he would begin to care, and until then he considered his patients to be nothing more than puppets comprised of flesh, bone, and nerve endings that were aching to be manipulated by his toxin.

He set about preparing for the experiment with enthusiasm atypical to his usual reserved mood. A traditionalist at heart, Crane preferred the time-honored method of note-taking to more modern technological means, and as he administered a series of tests he jotted down line after line of clinical observations onto sheets of crisp paper. His notes often started off as neat lines of handwritten ink before launching into frenzied scrawl as he became more and more immersed in the session, and when later reading through them Crane would sometimes feel a slight twinge of embarrassment at his sloppy penscript.

When he had finished processing Schiff's vital signs Crane placed his notes to the side and opened his briefcase. The empty eye sockets of his mask looked up at him with yearning, begging for its burlap flesh to meet his until their faces merged to become a single fearful entity. As he slid his companion over his head and tightened its noose around his neck, Crane wondered if he was indulging the mask or himself; perhaps, he considered, there was no longer any difference.

Fingers hovering above the toxin sprayer encircling his lithe wrist—a newly-fashioned invention, and one he'd been positively _itching_ to use—Crane turned to face Schiff and surveyed with a degree of satisfaction the inklings of horror clouding the man's previously-deluded expression. As skin and bone Crane did not frighten Schiff, but the mere sight of Scarecrow's jagged stitches was enough to cause him to whimper helplessly as he writhed atop the gurney, desperate to escape what he knew was about to occur.

"Come now, Mr. Schiff," Crane said with silky condescension, " _surely_ you know the drill by now. The sooner you cooperate, the sooner you can go back to your cozy little cell and take a nice, long nap. If you behave, I'll even see to it that you get an extra pudding cup with your dinner. Wouldn't that be nice, _hmm_? Do we have a deal?"

Schiff responded by pressing his lips tightly together and shaking his head violently. His glassy eyes were wet, but Crane was unsure if they were tears of fear or suppressed giggles.

Crane sighed. "Have it your way, then."

A quick burst of toxin hissed from Crane's wrist, and within seconds the basement was pierced with the combined echo of terrified screams and deep, unsettling laughter.

* * *

Ra's al Ghul stood beside Crane in Arkham Asylum's basement, watching intently with an expression that portrayed neither approval nor disapproval as several inmates clad in orange asylum-issued jumpsuits poured buckets of clear liquid into an exposed pipeline; others sat at tables, sore backs hunched over trays of chemicals and crushed poppies, their tired faces partially hidden beneath sterile-white surgical masks. Their work was as silent as it was efficient; in the beginning there had been defiance in the form of a vocal few who refused to follow Crane's instructions, and even attempted to inspire their comrades to join them in resistance. But after receiving swift discipline—their punishment had been as severe as it was imaginative, and carried out in full view of the other inmates—there were no further disruptions.

It had taken a tremendous amount of effort to put together the makeshift laboratory and even more effort to ensure that it remained a hidden secret, an achievement only made possible due to Crane's position of authority in the asylum and Ra's al Ghul's seemingly-infinite wealth. Any questions were answered with the exchange of cash, and if money failed—a rare occurrence in Gotham—then the inquisitor was taken down to the basement and given just enough time to regret their curiosity before fear toxin filled their lungs and destroyed their mind.

"I'm told that your business associate is starting to become difficult," Ra's replied, his gaze never wavering from the work unfolding before them as he spoke. "Is this true?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"And he has made demands of you?"

"On multiple occasions, and at great expense to my professional reputation. People are starting to become suspicious. I cannot accommodate any more of his _'favors'_ , as he likes to call them, without further jeopardizing my—"

"Then exercise your own discretion, Dr. Crane," Ra's said calmly, leaving a stunned Crane to blink with surprise as he turned away from him and began to walk away.

"And what is _that_ supposed to mean?" Crane called out after him incredulously, his voice reverberating shrilly throughout the cellar hall.

"It means whatever you need it to mean," Ra's replied, and before Crane could respond the strange silver-haired man had faded into the basement's shadows, his disappearance so sudden and seamless that were Crane a less rational man he might have wondered if Ra's had ever really been there at all.

* * *

Upon arriving at the prison housing Carmine Falcone, Crane was greeted by the warden; she was a cordial, straight-forward woman who did not hesitate to openly express misgivings towards his patient's latest insincere spectacle.

"Dr. Crane, thanks for coming."

"Not at all," Crane replied politely as he followed the warden down a barred hallway, silently assessing her every step and word with expertly-honed, unassuming observation. She appeared to be just as sick of Falcone's dramatics as Crane was.

_Good_. That would work in his favor.

"He cut his wrists?" The question was redundant—Crane already knew the answer.

She nodded. "Probably looking for the insanity plea," she remarked dryly, mouth cocked in a thin half-smirk and her tone laced with skepticism; it was clear that she believed Falcone's act of self-harm to be nothing more than an intentional attempt for the slippery mafioso to evade legal repercussions yet again. Crane was inclined to agree. "But if anything should happen..."

"Of course," Crane said understandingly as they came to a stop before a door. "Better safe than sorry."

The warden punched a quick succession of numbers into the door's keypad before opening it to reveal a brightly-lit, white-walled room. Crane stepped inside, and when the door closed shut behind him and his eyes fell on Falcone seated at the interview table he allowed himself the luxury of an expression of obvious disdain.

"Yeah, Dr. Crane. I can't take it anymore, it's all too much," the mobster mimicked in a disinterested, flat voice as Crane took a seat across from him, still arrogant as ever despite his public humiliation. "The walls are closing in, blah blah blah. A couple days of this food, it'll be true."

Crane sighed. "What do you want?"

"I wanna know how you're gonna convince me to keep my mouth shut."

"About what?" Crane's question was calm, cool, and—unknown to Falcone—dangerous. "You don't know anything."

"I know you don't want the cops to take a closer look at the drugs they seized," Falcone answered in the same low, careful tone he'd undoubtedly used to threaten countless dwellers of Gotham's underbelly. "And I know about your experiments with the inmates of your nuthouse. See, I don't go into business with a guy without finding out his dirty secrets."

Crane stared at Falcone with an expression the mafioso mistook as disturbed and Falcone let out a quiet scoff, believing himself to have intimidated his opponent.

"And those goons you used," Falcone continued, "I _own_ the muscle in this town. Now, I've been bringing your stuff in for months—so whatever he's planning, it's big, and I want in."

"Well, I already know what he'll say." Crane leaned forward, eyebrows raised in derision. "That we should kill you."

Falcone scoffed again. "Naw, even he can't get me in here. Not in _my_ town."

Crane let out a deep, heavy sigh and removed his glasses. He paused for a moment, eyes absentmindedly scouring the empty room to look at nothing in particular as he thought of Georgia, of Granny Keeny and her hungry crows, of Billy Lee Walker and his fist slamming into Crane's nose with a sickening crack, of their bodies rotting beneath the dirt and clay of his childhood garden. He thought of Killer Croc and his taunts, of his bloodied claws dragging along the floor of his cell, of his monstrous jaws unhinging to howl out in agony and horror. He thought of everyone who had ever made him feel inferior, from the schoolyard bullies of his youth to his grandmother's cruel zealotry to the smug and wealthy pupils during his teaching years—he thought of them with a renewed flush of hate, and when his gaze landed on Falcone again he saw them all.

_It means whatever you need it to mean,_ Ra's had told him.

_Whatever **I** need it to mean._

Crane looked at Falcone with an almost-pained expression and asked him the last question he would ever be sane enough to answer.

"Would you like to see my mask?"


	20. Then We Strike, 2006

* * *

**And Then We Strike**

_2006_

* * *

" _Scarecrow. Scarecrow. Scarecrow."_

The word babbled involuntarily from Carmine Falcone's lips in a deluded, quiet chant. The brash voice that had commanded Gotham's criminal world for years and sentenced countless men—some innocent, some not—to violent fates was now reduced to little more than a strained whisper, weakened by hours of helpless cries as Falcone sank deeper and deeper into his well-deserved hell. Crane had stripped him of both his power and his dignity, leaving behind only a weak shell of a man imprisoned within his own mind; were it not for his past interactions with the mobster, Crane would have perhaps felt a begrudged twinge of pity at the pathetic sight of a twitching Falcone staring up at the ceiling into a nightmare only he could see.

There would be no more joy for Carmine Falcone; no more indulgence in the form of booze and cigars and rich food, no more lazy hours spent pawing the flesh of glossy women that smelled of hair spray and drugstore perfume, no more gripping the satisfying weight of blood-bought money stacks in his ringed hands as he stood on a penthouse balcony to cast greedy eyes across the city he had once believed to be his. No, there would no longer be any joy for the man once known as Gotham's crime king—there would only be horror.

"As you can see for yourself," Crane said tersely as he turned to face Rachel Dawes with thinly-veiled contempt, "there is nothing _'convenient'_ about his symptoms."

The unamused Assistant District Attorney watched as Falcone suddenly jolted beneath his restraints, eyes widening in what Crane knew to be unfathomable terror, before slowly sinking back onto the cot and resuming his frantic murmuring. "What's'scarecrow'?"

"Patients suffering delusional episodes often focus their paranoia on an external tormentor," Crane explained coolly, "usually one conforming to Jungian archetypes. In this case..." He paused and cocked an eyebrow. "A scarecrow."

Visibly dissatisfied with Crane's explanation and her patience growing thinner by the second, Rachel tore her eyes from Falcone to fix Crane with a furrowed, irritated expression. "He's drugged?" she asked in a tone that implied a statement rather than a question.

Crane raised his brows and the corner of his lips turned upwards into an enthusiastic, almost-instinctive smirk. "Psychopharmacology is my primary field. I'm a strong advocate. Outside, he was a giant—in here, only the mind can grant you power."

Rachel's expression darkened. "You enjoy the reversal."

_Oh, Ms. Dawes,_ Crane thought wryly, _if only you knew._

"I respect the mind's power over the body." He paused, weighing his next words carefully. "It's why I do what I do."

It was the truth. Everything in Crane's life— _everything_ —could be traced back to his fascination with fear, from huddling over the ghost stories Granny Keeny forbade him to read among the safety of the town library's bookshelves as a child in Georgia, to plunging a syringe full of his toxin into the arm of a pleading and terrified asylum inmate. Muscles could atrophy, the brain could deteriorate, and every living heart must one day cease to beat, but as long as man existed fear could never die. "Respect" was far too simple a word for Crane's devotion; he embraced fear with the ardor of a lover, the reverence of a worshiper, and the intentions of a conqueror. Crane did not merely admire and study fear—he had _become_ it. The metaphorical line that separated Jonathan Crane and Scarecrow grew more blurred with every passing day, and that suited him just fine. He was not disturbed by the transformation; rather, he found it liberating, blissful, _exciting_.

Ms. Dawes could never understand that, of course; no one who devoted themselves to the archaic, useless concept of legality and laws was capable of imagination. Oh, she'd find herself confronted by fear soon enough— _all_ of Gotham would—but until that moment arrived Crane would have to play along.

For now.

" _I_ do what _I_ do to keep thugs like Falcone behind bars," Rachel said dryly. " _Not_ in therapy."

She stepped past Crane and headed towards the elevators, calling behind her as she walked. "I want my own psychiatric consultant to have full access to Falcone, including blood work. Find out what exactly _you_ put him on."

"First thing tomorrow, then," Crane responded evenly, taking place beside her as the elevator rang quietly to signal its arrival before the doors opened and the pair stepped inside.

" _Tonight._ I've already paged Dr. Lehmannat at County General."

"As you wish," he replied softly, and as the elevator began its descent into the basement Crane heard the mask call out to him from inside his jacket, the burlap warm and hungry against his chest, and wondered what fears the combative Dawes possessed.

The elevator came to a stop, its doors opening to reveal the damp, crypt-like darkness of Arkham Asylum's basement. A chemical smell drifted through its halls, and when Crane beckoned Rachel forward he saw a fleeting look of suspicion—or was it fear?—flicker in her eyes. He fought to hold back a smile. The wary ones were always the most satisfying.

"This way, please," Crane said to her calmly. "I think there's something you should see."


End file.
